


there it is, beating away

by blueink3



Series: you got a big old heart in there, david [1]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Baseball, Christmas, David is better at this than he thinks, Family, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Gratuitous Use of F Bombs, Halloween, Hospitals, Idiots in Love, Kid Fic, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Patrick is Wonderful and Patient and also a Troll, Swear Jars, a whisper of angst, but not theirs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 40,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27037258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueink3/pseuds/blueink3
Summary: It still doesn’t explain why there is a small being manning their store, swinging his legs back and forth like he’s just pleased as punch to be there.“What the fuck?” David blurts, and the kid’s eyes blow wide.“That’s a bad word,” he whispers.“Um…” Fuck, now what? “It… is.” Is he supposed to apologize? Oh my God, is this what parenthood is? Constantly saying sorry for your fuck ups? That you can’t actually call ‘fuck ups’ because your kid will call you out on inappropriate verbiage?Or, David and Patrick befriend a single mom and her son. Well, Patrick does. David is still feeling things out.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Series: you got a big old heart in there, david [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2164311
Comments: 950
Kudos: 685





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically completed and will be updated every other day (unless I get bored and dump it all on you at once. Or if 2020 continues throwing curveballs and delays me by a day or two. Essentially, I reserve the right to prepare for all contingencies).

There is a child in the store. 

There is a tiny human sitting on a stool behind the cash, and if it weren’t for the fact that his eyes are a startling blue, David can’t honestly say that the idea of his husband accidentally shrinking himself didn’t actually cross his mind. The boy’s hair is brown, the kind of curly Patrick’s gets when he lets it grow out, and his skin is frighteningly pale. He looks so goddamn _earnest_ that David questions whether or not his husband’s eyes haven’t been blue this entire time. 

“Mr. Patrick went to get something from the car,” the kid says, assuring David that, yes, his husband is still his husband (getting something from the car, apparently), but it still doesn’t explain _why_ there is a small being manning their store, swinging his legs back and forth like he’s just pleased as punch to be there. 

“What the fuck?” he blurts, and the kid’s eyes blow wide. 

“That’s a bad word,” he whispers. 

“Um…” Fuck, now what? “It… is.” Is he supposed to apologize? Oh my God, is this what parenthood is? Constantly saying sorry for your fuck ups? That you can’t actually _call_ ‘fuck ups’ because your kid will call you out on inappropriate verbiage? Jesus, no _wonder_ his parents put them in a separate fucking wing. 

But then the little person clambers forward, kneeling up on the stool (which can’t be safe) solely so he can lean his elbows on the counter. He’s got a Scooby Doo band-aid on one and a smudge of dirt on the other. David tries not to cringe and makes a mental note to wipe the counter down later. 

“I won’t tell,” the boy whispers, and fuck. David’s heart thumps. 

He’s not sure he likes that. 

“Thanks?” 

“You’re welcome,” the kid says all too cheerily. Still leaning on the counter. Still looking like he’s going to slip and fall. Like he’s going to crack his curly head open and sue David for not being the attentive adult he’s supposed to be. Then he’ll get custody of the store and stock it with nothing but Sour Patch Kids and incorrect cartoon first aid necessities - dear _God._

“Ah, Max, I see you’ve met my husband,” Patrick greets, appearing from the back with a box in his arms, which he places on the counter to he can a) kiss David on the cheek and then b) walk around the counter and scoop the kid (Max, apparently) off his precarious perch. 

It’s effortless, barely requiring a thought. Patrick just grips the child under his arms and gently hauls him off the stool, swinging him around carefully and placing him on the ground. David would probably handle him like a feral cat - if he didn’t drop him first. 

David also didn’t realize he was holding his breath until that moment. Until the kid’s feet landed on solid, perfectly-stained hardwood. 

“He said a bad word,” the boy states, and David’s eyes narrow. 

“Traitor.” 

“Yeah,” Patrick chuckles, “he does that from time to time.” And then he winks. Because he’s a little shit and David is in love with him. “Try not to judge him too harshly for it.” 

“Max,” David repeats. He hasn’t met many Maxes. 

“It’s Maximilian,” he says with a grumble, little nose wrinkling, letting David know exactly what his opinion is on _that._

“Well I think it’s distinguished.” 

“I don’t know what that means,” Max says and his intonation is so like David’s own that Patrick bursts out laughing. 

“His mom got held up at work so I brought him here,” Patrick says, before turning his attention to the boy. “Better than leaving him alone to fend for himself in the dark park.” 

Max’s eyes go wide again. “The park is scary at night.” 

“Yes, yes it is,” Patrick replies, ruffling his hair before turning to David. “You don’t mind, right, David?” he says in a way that makes it quite clear David is not allowed to mind even if he did. 

Which, surprisingly, he doesn’t. Sure, Max’s grubby t-shirt and shorts getup doesn’t exactly match the store’s aesthetic, but Patrick isn’t much better, in his coach jersey and (delightfully tight) joggers. David has never been so happy that he convinced him to get the smaller size. 

“Mr. Patrick said you were going to pick up snacks,” the kid says, pointed gaze clocking the distinct lack of bags in David’s hands. 

Oh, he's picking up _snacks_ now? 

David levels a look at his husband and raises an imperious eyebrow. “I think Mr. Patrick didn’t realize there was a limited window of opportunity,” he says, holding up his macchiato. He had put the **Back in Five Minutes** sign up to get his daily afternoon caffeine fix, which he should have noticed had been removed since Patrick was back in the store when he returned. Perhaps then he wouldn’t have been so thrown by his husband’s mini-me manning the cash. 

“Oh, you don’t mind running back out, do you, honey?” Patrick asks, syrupy-sweet, his big, loud eyes employing every sympathetic expression in their arsenal. 

David clenches his jaw, biting back the childish whine that would leave his lips under any other circumstance. Patrick _knows_ what that expression does to David.

“Or I can go and you can watch Max and finish unloading the boxes of Mrs. Ledecker’s jam from the trunk. Be careful, though. They’re heavy.” He makes a show of squatting down and, good _God,_ the seams on those joggers are doing the Lord’s work. “Lift with your legs.” 

“Ugh, for fuck’s sake,” he whispers, and Patrick’s infamous eyes go as wide as Max’s first did in silent chastisement, but the kid looks nonplussed by this point. 

“You should get a swear jar,” he states. “We have a swear jar at home. Mom puts in _a lot._ ”

David hums. “I think your mom and I would have that in common - ow!” he yelps as Patrick pinches his side on his way into the back. 

“It’s across the street, David. Is it that much trouble to pick up a muffin for someone who had a very hard little league practice?”

“Are we talking about Max or you?” David replies. 

“Perhaps we _should_ get a swear jar,” Patrick says with a smirk, and David glares because they both know who would be doing the majority of the contributing.

“Fine,” he grumbles, but only because he too wants a snack and, unfortunately, his appetite is nothing if not predictable. “Max, make yourself useful. But don’t actually touch anything,” he calls as he heads for the door, and Patrick’s reply echoes from the back. 

“Child labor laws, babe!” 

The bell rings as David leaves with a huff, its echo following him across the street and back into the Cafe where Twyla’s cheery voice greets, “Back again already?” 

He spends entirely too much time trying to figure out what kind of muffin to get the kid; so much in fact, that by the time he gets back to the store, Max is gone, his mother having come to pick him up in the interim. 

He tells himself he’s disappointed solely because his efforts were wasted, despite the extra baked good he now gets to eat, and not because the boy won’t get to savor the treat David painstakingly picked out for him. 

He hears a floorboard creak and he looks up towards the stockroom to find his husband watching him quietly, a soft smile on his face. 

“Don’t worry, David. I told him you said goodbye.”


	2. Chapter 2

June tumbles into July, bringing with it the kind of humidity that none of David’s hair care products stand a chance against, especially not when faced with physical exertion. He’s hustling from the store across town _on foot_ like some sort of vagabond, hiding behind trees so no one sees him in his hour of need, in order to make it to one of Patrick’s little league games. Which he’s running late for.

 _Very_ late.

In his defense, Jocelyn came in a minute before he was set to close with an apple butter emergency, a jar of which Roland Jr. then proceeded to shatter and track all over the store. Needless to say, David’s not feeling generous towards children or Schitts at the moment, so a little league game sponsored by the mayor is an _ideal_ place for him to be at this time.

Patrick will be in the dugout, laser-focused on the game and busy herding toddlers like feral cats so he probably won’t even notice, but David likes to support his husband and his extracurricular endeavors, no matter how incorrect the uniforms are or how much dirt his little tap shoes traipse into their home. 

David slows his walk across the gravel leading to the field, squinting in the early evening sun from behind his sunglasses, and listens to the cheers he can hear on the other side of the stands. He hopes Patrick’s team is winning. His husband gets mopey when they don’t (though David does enjoy coming up with inventive and usually seductive ways to cheer him up). He hears the crack of a bat (or really a tap - these are tiny humans, after all) and hurries his pace, but catches sight of a young woman, early-thirties maybe, sitting on a bench staring at nothing - just in the vague direction of the parking lot. She worries her thumbnail and her eyes are wet, but her expression is fierce. She might be upset, but she also might be about to fuck someone up. 

It’s impressive and it makes David slow again. He glances around, trying to place whatever has earned her wrath, but no one is in sight. 

“Um, are you all right?” 

She startles and blinks slowly up at him, as if just now realizing someone has spoken to her, and shields her eyes against the sun. “You’re David Rose.” 

Okay, that’s not what he expected. And clearly it shows on his face.

“Jeannie,” she says with a smile, holding out her hand. “Max’s mom.” 

“Ah, yes,” he murmurs as he takes it. “I nearly owed him my life savings with his swear jar Ponzi scheme.” 

Her eyes go wide and now David knows where Max got his from. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” 

“No, no. I appreciate his entrepreneurship.” 

She laughs and rubs at her forehead, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Well if it makes you feel any better, he’s almost gotten enough from me to buy himself a Playstation.” 

“It does, in fact, so thanks for that.” They share another chuckle, but an awkward silence still falls. He looks back out at the parking lot before frowning towards the field. “Are you… heading in?” 

The sigh she exhales is heavy, weighted down with a million things that aren’t his business to know. “Yeah.” She slaps her palms on her thighs and pushes herself to standing, hiking a tiny backpack over her shoulder. It’s Spiderman-themed, so David is going to go ahead and assume it isn’t hers. “Last I checked, they were winning 6-4.” 

“Thank God,” he mutters, before biting his lips and throwing her panicked look. 

“I understand,” she laughs, giving him a conspiratorial wink. “Little league is a very serious game.” 

“ _Very_ serious,” he agrees, thinking of Patrick just last night, studying today’s batting lineup like he was going into Game 7 of the World Series. See? He’s learning things. Which is why Patrick now knows every contestant on Drag Race. 

“You have Rose Apothecary, right?” 

“I do. Well, _we_ do. Hence why I’m late.”

“I think your husband is the understanding sort,” Jeannie chuckles and David grins. 

“He is.” Sometimes. He’s surprisingly _less_ understanding when David keeps him up until 3am with paint swatches, trying to get him to see the differences between New White, James White, and White Tie for the downstairs bathroom. 

“I’ve been in a few times, but I don’t think I’ve seen you yet. I usually come first thing right after I drop Max off at school.”

David winces. “Yeah, mornings aren’t my forte,” he says as they make their way over to the bleachers.

“Mine either, but apparently society frowns on you making your kid hitchhike to second grade. God knows I tried,” she says wistfully and he lets out a loud laugh. “Join me?” 

He looks down to realize that Jeannie has taken a spot at the end of the small set of bleachers, away from the other, more rabid parents, which David appreciates. 

“Thanks,” he says, surreptitiously wiping it down and sitting beside her, before looking out over the field. His eyes are drawn to the dugout first, watching his husband crouch down next to a small girl whose batting helmet looks too heavy for her fragile neck. Patrick points to something by home plate and helps adjust her grip on the bat. She smiles up at him brightly and he watches her skip off towards the umpire for her turn. 

Jeannie must follow David’s gaze because she gently nudges his shoulder and murmurs, “Patrick’s really great with the kids.” 

“Yeah,” David can’t help but admit. “He is.” And no longer does that admission make anxiety scramble his insides in a martini shaker because he knows he’s enough for Patrick. They don’t need more in this life they have. 

Well, maybe a dog. Which is a case his husband is lobbying for _hard._ David is as yet undecided. 

“Where’s Max?” It’s hard to tell with all of the kids in matching hats. 

She points towards the middle of the dugout with a rueful smile where three boys are playing rock, paper, scissors. 

“Guys, pay attention. Support your teammates,” he hears Patrick say and he smiles warmly. It’s the end of the last inning and they’re now winning 7-5, but his husband still strives for sportsmanship like the boy scout he is. 

“He’s a sweet kid,” David says, and he’s not even faking it; not the way he often has to when Jocelyn comes in with Roland Jr. (also sweet, but mainly a menace). 

“Yeah,” she replies, but her smile is sad. “We do our best.” 

David looks at her because he knows what a phrase like ‘we do our best’ really means. It means ‘ _I’m_ doing my best and I’m not sure I’m enough.’ 

And then it clicks - the parking lot and the expression that was angry yet heartbroken. The hope for something that was decidedly not there. 

“Who were you waiting for?” 

She sighs again, the weight of the world (or just a little boy’s wishes) on her shoulders. “His dad. Max is supposed to spend the night with him.” She swallows and looks down at her hands, twisting a ring that’s most definitely not on her ring finger. “He promised he’d be here by the opening pitch.” 

David nods because he knows what that’s like. Having parents that are more absent than not. They made up for it, though, and things are good now. But David remembers what it’s like to be seven and to have your hopes crushed by the people that are supposed to protect them the most. 

“Max hasn’t seen him in months.” 

It’s David’s turn to exhale. That’s not right, despite his current stance on people under the age of ten. 

“You know how it is,” she says with a shrug, clearly an argument she’s had with herself (and her ex) more than once. “If it’s not one thing, it’s another. Something always comes up.” 

“Not when it’s your kid,” he replies fiercely - far more fiercely than he means to. Oh God, what is _that_? 

But Jeannie merely smiles wryly. Resignedly. “You’d think.” 

David looks back over at the dugout where Max is now standing, bat in hand, waiting for his turn. Patrick has a hand on his shoulder and is leaning down to impart some last minute wisdom into the ear not covered by the helmet. Unless they royally fuck up, they’re going to win, but both Patrick and Max have matching furrowed brows like they’re down by two with the bases loaded and their combined focus is the only way to come back. 

Then Max steps up to the plate and looks into the crowd, eyes quickly scanning until they land on Jeannie and he waves. 

So not _quite_ that focused then. 

“Eyes on the ball, Max!” Patrick calls and laughter ripples through the meager crowd. 

“Thanks, Coach!” Jeannie calls back and David’s eyes go wide. 

_Coach._

Oh, he could get used to that. 

But he forces himself to pay attention, to watch Max hit the ball and take off towards first as fast as his little legs will carry him. David’s on his feet before he even realizes it, jumping up and down and cheering right alongside Jeannie. Max is tagged out, the third and final to end the game, but he hit a runner home to widen their lead. 

He meets his husband’s gaze and smiles brightly, blowing him a kiss and making a note to tell him _all_ about the baseball terms he remembered. And David is so excited that Patrick is excited that he completely forgets what comes next. 

David has experienced a lot of heartbreak in his life, but nothing quite prepares him for the way Max runs toward the parking lot after the post-game high fives, bright gaze jumping from car to car, from man to man, and not finding the one person he’s looking for.

“Fuck, I hate this part,” Jeannie murmurs next to him, before schooling her face into a semblance of calm that Alexis _wishes_ she was capable of and walking toward her son. 

David watches her kneel down and take his shoulders. Her lips don’t move - she doesn’t even have to say anything - but Max knows. His lower lip wobbles and Jeannie is quick to pull him into her chest, cradling him back and forth. David hates that his own throat has gone tight. 

“Shit,” Patrick mutters, appearing over David’s shoulder and quickly assessing the situation. 

He clears his throat once, then twice. “A frequent occurrence?” 

His husband sighs, sliding an arm around his waist and tugging him in close. “Yeah.” 

“Come on,” Jeannie says, approaching them with a downtrodden Max holding tight to her hand, “let’s say goodbye to Coach and Mr. David.” 

“Bye,” Max mumbles, kicking at the pavement with his tap shoe. David _refuses_ to call them cleats. He has _limits_. 

“You know,” Patrick begins, squeezing David once before letting go, “David and I were thinking of getting some pizza.” He crouches down so he’s eye-level with the boy and patiently waits until Max raises his gaze to meet him. “Want to come? If it’s okay with your mom?”

“Did you have plans?” David murmurs, and Jeannie smirks. 

“Does a bubble bath and a bottle of wine count as plans?” she replies, and David emphatically nods. 

“It most certainly does.” 

“Maybe a boys' night?” Patrick amends, having heard David and Jeannie’s exchange, and God, David could kiss him. Frankly, Jeannie looks like she could, too. “Does that sound like it might be fun?”

Max’s expression wars with itself, trying to be upset but fighting off a growing smile. Finally, he glances up. “Can I, Mom?” 

“Of course you can, baby,” she says quietly, mouthing a ‘thank you’ at Patrick when Max turns back to him. “Let me clean you up a little and we’ll meet Coach and Mr. David at their car.” 

Max takes his Spiderman backpack and starts to skip away, Jeannie trailing in his wake before she turns quickly and practically collides with Patrick, wrapping him in a tight hug. She squeezes David’s arm too as she pulls away, looking embarrassed and clearing her throat. “Sorry, just - thank you.” 

Patrick nods and squeezes her elbow in return, watching as she jogs to catch up with her son, waving to a couple of other families who wish him a good game as they pass. “I’m sorry,” he finally says when Jeannie and Max are well out of earshot. “I know you wanted a quiet night in, I should have asked - ”

“No, honey,” he whispers, leaning in to press a kiss to his perfect husband’s temple. “It’s okay.” 

And, to David’s surprise, it actually is. 


	3. Chapter 3

Pizza night goes well, all things considered, despite a _spirited_ discussion about what classifies as a correct topping. David and Max are divided on olives but they present a united front against Patrick when it comes to pineapple. The kid is surprisingly erudite for such a small person, passionately arguing his case for why they should let him have pop, even though the last words Jeannie said to them all were literally, “No pop.” 

It isn’t until David is halfway through his fourth breadstick as Max and Patrick play tic tac toe on the kid’s menu that he remembers why Max is with them in the first place:

_“He promised he’d be here by the opening pitch.”_

And then - 

_“Max hasn’t seen him in months.”_

The post-game heartbreak seems like a distant memory at the moment, at least until the next time, and David watches his husband purposefully lose solely to see utter delight cross a little boy’s face. He falls a bit more in love with him then - a feat he honestly didn’t think was possible. 

They eat more pizza than they should and get three separate desserts when Max can’t decide between chocolate cake and apple pie. Patrick offers to order the other and share, even though he prefers the lemon tart, because he’s gracious and not nearly as dictatorial as his other half is when it comes to sweets. David had his heart set on the brownie sundae the minute Patrick proposed the restaurant, having already sampled the entirety of the dessert menu and ranked the options in descending order on a laminated piece of paper in his mind. 

So, yes, the evening was... nice. 

Granted, a congratulatory makeout session with his husband on their couch while You've Got Mail plays would have been nicer, but the night is young by grownup standards. They have time. 

David leans back in the passenger seat of the car, full of carbs and cheese but sadly sober because as Patrick had said, ‘they’re responsible adults in whom Jeannie has placed her trust.’ David still doesn’t think that disqualified him from a single glass of wine, but he likes Jeannie. He also remembers her impressive _I’m going to fuck you up_ face. He doesn’t want to let her down or be on the receiving end of _any_ of _that._

The back seat has been quiet for the past five minutes or so, quite a change in pace from the treatise Max was offering on why Tommy Bishop in his class is an absolute moron. It was quite passionate. David was thoroughly convinced and had very few notes on the delivery. 

He looks over his shoulder and smiles. Sure enough, Max’s chin has collided with his chest and his little hands are lax in his lap. See, he can handle children like this. Comatose. 

“He’s out cold.”

Patrick glances in the rearview mirror and chuckles. “Jeannie will be happy. He played hard today.” 

Having missed the majority of the game, he’ll have to take Patrick’s word for it. 

“So…” he lowers his voice, well aware of his own childhood habit of faking sleep to eavesdrop on the grownups, “what happened there?” 

Patrick frowns, shooting him a quick look before returning his eyes to the road. “With the game?” 

“No,” David gently swats his husband’s thigh and then leaves his hand there, a habit he likes to think is a comfort to them both. “With…” he nods towards the back, to their unconscious ward, and Patrick shrugs, but his hands tighten on the wheel.

“I mean - I haven’t known them long. I haven’t known any of the kids or their families long,” he reminds. 

It’s true, he only just started coaching towards the end of last season when old Mr. Hancock took a line drive to the groin and promptly decided to retire, which - fair. 

“But from what I can tell, and from what Jeannie’s mentioned…” Patrick glances in the rearview mirror again. Max’s head lolls against the seat as the car turns, his mouth hanging open. “High school sweethearts, got married young - ”

“Sounds familiar,” David murmurs, squeezing his leg to show he’s teasing. Patrick huffs out a laugh and ignores him. 

“... had Max, and a few years later, he bolted. Just... left. Jeannie said his desire to be the ‘fun dad’ didn’t jive with the actual responsibilities that come with having a child.” He shrugs but his shoulders are stiff.

David remembers Max’s hopeful face from that afternoon as he looked around the parking lot for his father only to realize he didn’t come. Again. Patrick’s hand comes down on top of David’s on his thigh, and only then does it occur to him that he was probably squeezing it too hard. 

“You wouldn’t have done that,” David murmurs, looking at his husband as he carefully navigates the streets, aware of the precious cargo they carry. 

Patrick stops at a red light and turns to him with a soft smile. “Neither would you.” 

David hums but neither agrees nor argues. He’s no stranger to pregnancy scares and he’ll be the first to admit that his reaction left something to be desired. Left a lot of somethings. Granted, he was 24 with cocaine probably still under his nose, so by no means a pillar of paternal care - 

But he would have done what he had to. 

Despite his tendency to run, he doesn’t think he’d run away from that. As much as he would have wanted to. 

“You okay?” Patrick murmurs and David blinks back into focus, only to see that they’re idling outside what can only be Jeannie and Max’s house.

“Yeah,” he whispers, voice far hoarser than he’d like. He feels completely off-kilter, that little jaunt down memory lane reminding him of a path his life potentially could have taken. A path his husband could have taken as well, if he and Rachel had maybe been a little less careful. If Patrick hadn’t realized something was wrong, packed his bags, pointed to a map and thought, ‘Schitt’s Creek - that’s the place for me.’

“Okay, David,” Patrick replies, quietly, with a squeeze to David’s hand which is still on Patrick’s thigh, like he knows. He runs his thumb over David’s wedding ring, as if to ground him, before letting go so he can open the door. He closes it gently, but not hard enough to latch, before coming around the car to open Max’s. 

David turns in his seat to watch Patrick carefully unbuckle the boy and untangle the seatbelt from his lax body before bending down and pulling him into his arms in a move that honestly has David impressed. Max barely stirs, just rests his cheek on Patrick’s shoulder with a little grunt and nuzzles into the warmth at his neck.

David can sympathize. It’s his favorite spot, too. 

“Be right back,” Patrick murmurs and David nods, not wanting to break the hush that had fallen over the car. 

Patrick leaves that door open too so the slam of it doesn’t wake the sleeping child in his arms. David rolls down his window so he can hear whatever ends up being said at the door, leaning his arm out of the car and resting his chin in the crook of his elbow. 

Patrick carefully carries Max up the walk and shifts him to his right arm so he can knock with his left. Jeannie must have been waiting for them because the door opens a moment later and she stands there looking infinitely more relaxed than she had at the game, face glowing from a mask David selfishly hopes she bought at the store. 

“He would _not_ lay off the booze,” he hears Patrick say, followed quickly by Jeannie’s stifled laughter. “Where do you want this lush?” 

“Just in here.” Jeannie points inside before waving to David in the car. 

He returns in kind and waits for Patrick to reappear. Whatever words they say when he does, David can’t hear this time. He just watches Patrick’s nod and, even from this distance, the blush that tints the tips of his ears. Jeannie must have said something nice. 

Jeannie waves again as Patrick returns to the car, slamming Max’s door shut before sliding into the driver’s seat and buckling up once more. 

“You’re good at that,” David murmurs and Patrick chuckles, putting the car in drive and pulling away from the curb. 

“What, carrying passed out seven-year-olds?” 

But David merely shakes his head, his hand blindly finding Patrick’s over the console. “Just - all of it.” 

Patrick lifts David’s palm to his lips and presses a kiss to his knuckles. It feels like a promise. “So are you.” 

He doesn’t snort in derision, because the sincerity in Patrick’s eyes is too much, too sacred. Not something to be mocked. His expression is like an eclipse and David will be blinded if he looks at it directly.

He looks anyway. 


	4. Chapter 4

Summer trips into fall, and the little league season starts to wind down faster than the trees start to change. David is reorganizing the back-to-school display of recycled notebooks and stick pencils when Patrick’s phone rings, vibrating across the counter and shattering the post-lunch rush quiet. 

“Got it!” Patrick calls from the back, which is good because David wasn’t exactly scrambling to answer. His husband pushes the curtain aside and sticks a pencil behind his ear, looking all kinds of nerdy sexy as he picks up the phone and frowns at the screen. 

“Who is it?” 

“Dunno,” he replies with a shrug, answering it anyway because he’s an octogenarian at heart who just _accepts_ calls from unknown numbers. “Hello?”

David watches his face carefully, fully expecting him to hang up once the voice on the other end starts talking about ‘limited time warranties’ but instead, Patrick’s brow creases and he stands up straight. 

“This is he.”

Oh shit. 

David drops whatever product is in his hand, not even caring as it falls to the floor, and walks over to his husband who’s now rubbing his forehead and then pitching the bridge of his nose. 

“Is he okay?” 

David’s mind goes immediately to Clint and his heart pounds because he just spoke to him yesterday. He knows life comes at you fast but, like - _yesterday_. 

“Right, yeah, that’s the only number I have, too,” Patrick continues, voice worried but relatively steady. If it were serious, if something bad had happened to Clint, he’d be more of a mess. David knows his husband. “No, I understand. I can - I can head to the hospital? And - and wait?” 

David reaches across the counter and takes Patrick’s hand, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles. Patrick squeezes his palm and offers a small smile, and something in David’s chest unclenches. 

Okay. Smiles are good. Smiles aren’t serious. 

“Right, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Thanks.” He hangs up and sighs, and David comes around the counter and takes hold of his shoulders. 

“Honey?” 

“That was the school - ”

Wait. “The school?”

“Max broke his wrist on the playground and they can’t get a hold of Jeannie _or_ his dad - ”

“So they called _you_?” David interrupts. Aren’t there, like, emergency contacts? School protocols? Legally binding contracts? 

Patrick shrugs, looking sheepish but touched at the same time. “Apparently Max has my number memorized.” 

David gapes. “How does a toddler have your number memorized? _I_ don’t even have your number memorized!” 

“David!” Patrick swats at him and uses the movement to shift David to the side so he can step around him. “They can’t let me pick him up, obviously I don’t have official permission, but I thought I might meet them at the hospital. One of the teachers is taking him.” He bites his lip and looks up beneath his eyelashes. “Is that - all right?” 

David’s heart aches both for the hurt little boy and for his husband who can’t help but try and make things right. “Of course it’s all right,” he says softly. “They probably won’t let you do much there either, though.” 

“No, I know, but at least I can sit with him. Until Jeannie gets there.” 

David presses a kiss to his forehead. “He’s probably really scared.” He feels Patrick nod beneath his lips. “C’mon. I’ll drive you - ” Patrick starts to interrupt, but David presses a hand to his mouth, feeling his hot breath puff against his skin. “We drove here together and I would rather close the store for an afternoon than walk all the way home at dusk at the mercy of the moths.” Sure, he’s made progress since moving to his dream home in the middle of the Great Outdoors, but like, minuscule progress. 

Patrick smiles. “Fair enough.” 

“Good.” David doesn’t explore the niggling feeling hiding behind one of his ribs that might resemble concern for the kid if he dragged it out into the light. 

They drive the 34 kilometers to Elmdale at a clip, but Patrick’s knee bounces the entire way, keeping time with the tunes coming through the speakers. David keeps the music on low, a steady hum of a distraction, but he doesn’t sing along like he would on a vendor run or that rare thing for a small business owner - a weekend getaway. His right hand comes down to rest on Patrick’s thigh, stilling the movement but feeling the flex of the quadricep under his palm, and he squeezes the jeans in a firm grip, running his thumb over the denim until the muscle relaxes once more. 

“How about you text Jeannie and let her know you’re on your way.” He glances over before quickly returning his eyes to the road. Patrick needs something to do. Something that would be helpful. David knows many things about his husband, but this above all: Patrick Brewer needs to be needed. And boy, does David ever. “Whenever she eventually gets the messages from the school, you know she’s going to freak out. And when she recovers from that doom spiral, she’ll be comforted by the fact that you’re with him.” 

“Okay,” Patrick murmurs, grumbling a little like he wants to argue that his presence is particularly comforting to anyone, but David would raise an objection worthy of Johnnie Cochran and then happily cross-examine his husband in a court of law. Said husband fishes his cell out of his pocket, types out a text, and then frowns. 

“What?” 

“Something must be wrong with her phone,” he says. “The message is green. She has an iPhone, it’s usually blue.” 

“Dead battery or no cell service maybe,” David offers, squeezing Patrick’s thigh as it starts to tense again. 

“Yeah,” he replies with a sigh, leaning his head back and staring out the window. 

David eyes him again, letting go of his leg so he can take the wheel with his right hand and hit the turn signal with his left for the exit for Elmdale. He loves how much Patrick cares, truly. It’s what makes him such a good coach, a great business partner, a fantastic husband. 

Sometimes David just wishes it didn’t spike his blood pressure so much. 

The parking lot is pretty deserted for a Wednesday afternoon, so he takes a spot near the ER entrance and unbuckles his seatbelt. Patrick, in typical fashion, is already halfway to the door. His legs may be stout but he’s fucking speedy when he wants to be. 

“Honey, wait!” Groaning, David jogs to catch up, threading their fingers together as the doors slide open with a hiss. Patrick makes a beeline for the front desk and David has no choice but to hang on. 

“Hi, I’m here for Max Cantwell?” 

The woman behind the glass partition raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Are you his father?” Her name tag reads **Sharon** _._ David does not like her tone. 

“Um, baseball coach,” Patrick replies, the tips of his ears going pink. David would find it adorable if he wasn’t thisclose to wringing Sharon’s neck for the condescending look she’s currently shooting his husband. 

“Sir, unless you’re a relation of the patient, I can’t give you any inform - ”

“Mr. Patrick!” a voice cries out, and both he and David look up to see Max through an open exam room door beyond the desk, face streaked with tears, but eyes bright and downright _elated_ to see them. 

Patrick looks back at Sharon with a raised eyebrow that’s non-existent but the effect is the same: _Are you really going to deny him that?_ She sighs and nods with her head to the door beside the desk, buzzing them both in when they get close. Her eyes are narrow, though, as if saying _step one foot out of line and I’ll bounce you,_ and David is eerily reminded of the child-minder on the set of Sunrise Bay. He offers his most winning smile, but she just rolls her eyes in return. 

By the time he turns back, Patrick is gone. David startles for a second only to realize that his expeditious husband has already made his way to the exam room and is quickly shaking hands with the teacher who accompanied Max before settling in to the boy’s side on the table.

David hovers in the doorframe and just watches. 

“At least it’s not your throwing hand,” Patrick murmurs and Max smiles, even as more tears spill onto his cheeks.

“Won’t be doing much catching either,” he sniffs, wiping his uninjured hand across his nose, causing David to grimace and look around for a tissue. The teacher, a young woman maybe in her late twenties, smirks wryly and nods at the counter behind David where a box sits.

“Maybe not,” Patrick replies to Max, not even looking as he holds out his hand for the tissue David places in it. He knows him all too well. “But I’ll make sure you don’t fall too far behind.” 

“Promise?” 

“Promise.” Patrick helps Max wipe his face as a doctor appears over David’s shoulder, eyes wide. 

“Quite the party in here,” she greets, checking her clipboard. “You must be Max.” 

“Yeah,” he replies, voice wobbly, and Patrick squeezes his shoulder. 

The doctor’s gaze darts to all of them. “Do… we have a parent or guardian present?” she asks, eyes landing on David who blanches. 

“Oh God, no,” he blurts. “I mean - ” 

“I’m his teacher,” the young woman greets, standing and saving David from himself. “Max fell off the monkey bars.” 

The doctor looks over at Patrick, the one Max clearly seems the most comfortable with, and raises an eyebrow. “Dad?”

“Coach.” 

The doctor smirks and turns to David, the silent _And you?_ implicit in her face. 

“I’m… no one.” 

“That no one is my husband,” Patrick says, proudly and with a pathetic little wink. 

“Ah,” the doctor clicks the pen in her hand, “so we have one teacher, one coach, and one husband.” 

“I want my mom,” Max hiccups, and Patrick rubs his hand up and down his back.

“I know, bud.” 

“She’s on her way,” David says firmly to the doctor, feeling oddly defensive of Jeannie. He knows her a bit. He knows she would be here if she knew any of this was happening.

“Of course,” the doctor says, addressing the boy with a reassuring smile once more. “Max, I’m Dr. Bakshani. We’re going to get you fixed up so you’re back playing…” she looks to Patrick and he mouths _baseball_ at her, “baseball before you know it.” 

“It hurts,” Max whines, another fat tear spilling onto his cheek. The sight makes a not nice feeling settle in David’s chest. 

“I know,” she says, “but hopefully not for too much longer.” 

“You can’t give him anything for the pain?” David asks, and she looks hesitant. 

“X-rays first, and without a parent to confirm, I’m not sure what he’s allergic to - ”

“Penicillin and bees,” Patrick interrupts. 

David whips around to look at him. “What? How the hell do you know that?” 

“Babe, I have all of my kids’ allergies memorized. Especially when one of them requires me to carry an epipen in my back pocket.” He looks down at Max who smiles and leans further into his side.

“Of course you do, honey.” He shakes his head and wonders what else Patrick has memorized. 

“I also have a copy of his medical form here,” the teacher says. David never did bother to get her name and he feels slightly bad about that. 

“Excellent,” Dr. Bakshani says, taking the medical form and quickly scanning it, clocking Jeannie’s signature at the bottom. “All right, penicillin and bees it is. Max, we’re going to get you set up with some meds that might make you feel a little floaty, and that’s okay, but first a nurse will be by to take you to get some x-rays so we can see what your bones look like. Sound like a plan?” 

Max’s eyes go wide. “Do I get to keep a copy?” 

She leans down conspiratorially. “You bet you do.” 

David’s pretty sure the kid would fist pump if he could. 

Dr. Bakshani departs as the teacher pulls her cell phone out of her bag. “I’m going to give the school an update.” 

“Thanks, Sarah,” Patrick replies, and David steps aside so ‘Sarah’ can move past him into the hall. Off his look, Patrick laughs. “What? I introduced myself.” 

“Boy scout,” David mutters, biting back a smile. He focuses back on the kid to find him staring at him. “Hi, Max.”

“Hi, Mr. David.” He sniffs again, eyes filling, and David hands him another tissue. 

“You’re being very brave.” Because he is. Had their positions been reversed, David’s pretty sure he’d be on his third Xanax already. 

“Thanks,” Max mumbles, closing his eyes and usurping David’s favorite spot against Patrick’s chest. It’s fine, the kid’s in distress. He can borrow it strictly on a temporary basis. 

Patrick looks down, Max looks up, and they smile. Jesus Christ, no wonder everyone keeps asking if they’re related. 

David takes the seat Supposedly Sarah vacated and just watches, tuning out the beeps and murmurings from the hall that are overwhelming to him, a man on the far ( _far_ ) side of 30. He can’t imagine what it must feel like for a seven-year-old. 

“Not exactly how you thought you’d be spending your Wednesday, huh,” Patrick murmurs and, despite not knowing which of them he’s talking to, both Max and David shake their heads. 

Patrick’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he shifts away from Max so he doesn’t jostle him as he tries to pull it out. Watching him struggle with his painted-on denim is truly one of David’s favorite pastimes. Unless it’s holding up hot sex in which case they are his mortal enemy. 

“Jeannie,” Patrick gusts out in relief as he looks at the screen and promptly raises the phone to his ear. “Hey, he’s good. He’s okay,” he greets immediately, listening for a second. “Yeah, they’re going to take him for some x-rays in a minute and get him started on some meds. Sarah from the school drove him and brought a copy of his form… Of course, he’s right here.” He holds the phone out to Max. “Hey, it’s your mom. She’s on her way.” 

Max gingerly takes it, the phone almost seeming too large for his tiny hand. “Mommy?” he says, and David’s heart cracks. He knows what it is to be scared and hurt and want to call out for ‘Mommy’ instead of ‘Mom.’ Though he has a feeling that Jeannie Cantwell is a lot more sympathetic and receptive to it than Moira Rose ever was. Hell, sometimes she’d pretend she didn’t know him.

“Twenty minutes out,” Patrick whispers to David. “She’s a realtor and there wasn’t any service at the farmhouse she was showing.” He tilts his head back and blows out a breath towards the ceiling. David, too, feels the stress start to recede from his shoulders like the tide.

Jesus, is _this_ what having children is like? But, like, _always_?

“Uh huh,” Max murmurs into the phone. “Okay. Yeah, Mr. Patrick and Mr. David are keeping me company. Uh huh, he’s here, too,” Max says, looking up at David who smiles tightly in return. Is it… okay that he’s here? It’s not like he could walk home. There were moths! “Miss Sanders was here but she had to call school real quick…” Max continues, excitement lighting up his pain-creased face for a moment, “I get to keep my x-rays!” 

Patrick eventually gets his phone back and tells Jeannie to drive carefully; that they’re all good here for the moment. Miss Supposedly Sarah Sanders returns and offers to wait for Jeannie out front because it doesn’t look like Max is letting Patrick go anywhere any time soon and the tiny exam room is already crowded. Patrick starts up a game of I Spy to take Max’s mind off of things and even David jumps in on a round, which he has to remember to make Patrick swear to never, ever tell Stevie about. 

A nurse comes to take Max to radiology, and David gives him a thumbs up as he’s helped into the required wheelchair before holding out his hand for Patrick to take. Which he does. Because he’s perfect.

Nine minutes after they leave, Jeannie comes blowing through the door, already-pale face going even more ashen at the sight of the empty bed. David has a hand on her arm before she goes crashing to the floor faster than his mother when she needs to create a diversion. 

“They took him for x-rays. He’ll be right back.” 

Jeannie finally seems to blink back to herself and registers that it’s David’s hand on her elbow. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry, I can’t believe you guys came.” 

“Of course we did,” David responds, blurting out an “oh” when she wraps her arms around his neck. 

“I’m so sorry,” she murmurs again against his shoulder. “When I had him memorize Patrick’s number, I thought it would be for something silly and baseball related.” 

David pulls away, eyes wide. “Don’t let Patrick hear you say that. Baseball is never silly,” he says solemnly, finally bringing a smile to Jeannie’s face. 

“No, of course not.” She laughs harder than the moment calls for, but David knows catharsis when he sees it. “Max either. He’d never forgive me.” 

Speaking of - 

“Mommy!” echoes off the linoleum and David, understandably, no longer has Jeannie’s attention. She gasps and drops to her knees as Max is wheeled through the door, trying to be mindful of his arm as he attempts to launch himself into her arms. 

“Careful, baby. Easy, easy,” she murmurs, holding him tight and letting him sob out the trauma of the last hour into her shirt. 

Patrick moves around her, placing a hand on her shoulder as he goes, before sidling up to David and pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

“Everything okay?” he asks, and Patrick nods. 

“The doc’ll come in and go over everything with Jeannie, but they think it’s a clean break. Just a cast, no surgery. Like you said, he was very brave.” 

“So were you.” 

Patrick rolls his eyes but kisses his cheek again as Dr. Bakshani returns to the room, very excited to now have a parent on the premises. They offer to get out of the way, but Max wants to show David his x-rays since he obviously won’t be at school for show-and-tell. And David, well, David can’t resist those loud, sad eyes. They’re as terrible and as persuasive as his husband’s. 

Dr. Bakshani asks Max what color cast he wants, and he throws it to the room. Patrick predictably goes for blue, Jeannie for red, but David defers. When pushed for his favorite color, he gestures down to his all-black ensemble and Max pouts. 

“But if I get black, no one can write on it.” 

“I will personally drop off a silver sharpie to your next baseball practice, assuming you still go what with…” he trails off and gestures to the still-displayed x-ray showing a still-broken bone.

“He’ll go,” Jeannie says. “Moral support, right, Coach?” 

“Right,” Patrick grins before turning those menacing features on the man now stuck with them for life. “Will you, David? Will you _personally_ bring a silver sharpie for Max to practice?” he teases, sliding a hand up beneath his black sweater to rub a circle on his lower back. 

“I…” he swallows and catches sight of Max’s hopeful expression just fucking _beaming_ , “will.” 

They’re terrors, the lot of them, wielding sentiment like a battle axe. 

He and Patrick finally say their goodbyes and make their way through the waiting room, nodding at Sharon (well, Patrick nods, David glares), before the hiss of the automatic doors beckons them into the early evening light. Despite the fact that the whole ordeal took barely over an hour, including travel time, David is fucking _exhausted._ He collapses into Patrick’s already waiting arms and buries his face against his shoulder, letting him take his weight as he groans out the last seventy-odd minutes of anxiety into his shirt. 

“We’re never having one of those.” 

“No, that was very stressful,” Patrick agrees and David nods. 

“Okay, as long as we’re still on the same page.” 

Patrick presses a kiss to David’s neck, to the spot he’s claimed as his. “We are.” 

It wasn’t a worry, per se. But it’s still nice to check in. It’s still nice to know. 

"Small people are not beneficial to my skincare," he states, mainly to lighten the mood, but also to prove that not every conversation about this has to be an emotional minefield.

Patrick pulls away and cups a hand to his cheek, much like he did on the day that kicked off this whole topic. "How are you _so handsome_?" he asks, and David regrets telling him that story - like, _immensely_ \- but not enough to stop him. 

"I'm being serious," he grumbles. "I'm gonna have to do like, three extra steps tonight to get rid of these frown lines. Prepare your bathroom needs accordingly." 

But if David suggests having Max’s favorite pizza delivered to their house that evening, he swears it was Patrick’s idea. 

And if he fucks his husband tenderly into their mattress that night, well, that one was all him.


	5. Chapter 5

Patrick coaches his team to the championships because of course he does, and David makes sure to arrive on time and with appropriate snacks and outerwear for the final game. Patrick had gotten him a team jersey with ROSE written on the back, but it wasn’t one of the scratchy cotton blends the kids had to wear. Yes, it was still polyester and the _only_ synthetic fabric in his closet, but it was also apparently the same make as the official Blue Jays uniforms so he’s learned to pick his battles. 

Especially when his husband wears his little baseball pants so damn well.

The mini-cooler bangs against his thigh as he approaches the dugout, knocking on the wooden beam holding up the poorly painted roof. 

“Hey!” Patrick greets, eyes lighting up. “What are you doing here?” 

David holds up the bottle in his right hand. “You left your sunscreen at home and despite the dip in the temperature, your nose and ears will not appreciate the burn.” 

Patrick smiles. “Let me guess: and neither will my husband?” 

“Certainly not. Your flush is lurid even on your most shameless days,” he says, trying not to grin and failing. 

“Aw, thanks, babe,” Patrick replies, stepping forward and pressing a kiss to his lips as a chorus of “ewwww!”s erupt from behind him. 

It’s not the first time the kids have booed their PDA and David doubts it’ll be the last if he has anything to say about it. He had gotten offended the first time it happened, jaw dropping in righteous indignation, before Patrick had quietly and gently reminded him that they’re seven and they do that to everyone.

And as much as David loves to stand out, sometimes he really does appreciate not being an exception. 

“Go keep Max company in the stands,” Patrick says with a chuckle and a surreptitious tap to David’s ass. 

David frowns. “Oh. Why? I mean - why isn’t he in the dugout?” It's not that he doesn't _want_ to keep Max company per se...

“Because he can’t stop asking the other kids to toss him a ball so he can try to use his cast as a bat,” Patrick replies wryly, rubbing at his forehead. “We gotta get started in a minute, but - ” he holds up the bottle, “thank you for this.” 

“Always looking out for you.” 

“Don’t I know it.” Patrick presses another quick kiss, eliciting another round of enthusiastic “eeeew”s and David snorts rather indelicately against his husband’s lips. 

“Break a leg, honey,” he says, though he knows better by now. 

“It’s ‘good luck,” Patrick replies with an atrocious wink, the grooves of their familiar banter weathered and warm. 

David makes his way over to the bleachers, to the little boy swinging his legs because his feet are too far off the ground to touch. 

“Maximus,” he greets, stepping past him and wiping down the open spot as Max blinks over at him.

“That’s not my name.” 

“Perhaps it should be,” he mutters. Fucking gladiator. “No sense of self-preservation.” He sits and places the cooler on his lap, pulling out a bottle of water and handing it to the kid. “You know that thing is on your arm to help it heal, right? Not to use as a weapon. You’re not Iron Man.” 

Max’s eyes blow wide as he struggles with the cap. “You know Iron Man?” 

David hums and takes the bottle, twisting the lid off and handing it back. “RDJ hosted a fabulous Arbor Day party on an environmentally friendly yacht off Malibu one year. Learned a lot about trees that day.” And about how to take the best mugshot, but he keeps that to himself. 

The teams jog out onto the field and David sets his sunglasses firmly in place. It’s bright despite the fall chill turning the leaves, and he regrets only packing cold beverages as he pulls out a sparkling water for himself.

Max starts swinging his legs again as if he’s jogging out too, like a dog in the middle of a running dream, and David realizes that it’s the first time since that fateful day in the store that he’s been alone with him. 

“Where’s your mom?” 

Max shrugs. “She had to work. She said Mr. Patrick offered to drive me home.” 

“That was nice of him.” 

Max blinks up at him again, clumsily spilling some water down the front of his shirt, the bottle awkward in his small hands especially since one is covered in plaster. “Is that why you married him? Because he’s nice?” 

David swallows back his sassy (and probably too-adult) reply and really considers it for a moment. Patrick was the first person to show him kindness with no ulterior motive. Sure, Stevie bestows kindness, but it’s usually disguised as inconvenience and attached to an invoice for some sort of boozy compensation. 

Usually, but not always...

 _“David, look at this place. You’ve_ **_won_** _.”_

Her snark is really just part of her charm, but she’s serious when he needs her to be. 

“Yeah, I think I did,” he says, both to Max's question and to the echo of Stevie in his head, soft smile on his face as he watches his husband shout something peppy to the kid on third base. 

Patrick’s not all that different from Stevie, to be honest, which is both a blessing and a curse - 

_“Okay, is this how this is gonna go? Because we have too much work to do today for me to feel attacked by way of an imbalanced social dynamic.”_

David has a feeling that Max hasn’t experienced Patrick’s more troll-like behavior, which is really a missed opportunity. Train them young, he thinks. But as he watches Patrick basically channel Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society, he wonders if Patrick isn’t exactly where he’s supposed to be, doing exactly what he’s meant to do.

After all, he’s good at it. And from David's limited childhood experience, so few are.

A clatter sounds on the metal bleacher between them, and David looks down to find a yellow stick about to roll off onto the ground below. 

“What’s this?” he asks as he rescues it with his shoe. 

“Oh it’s my epipen,” Max says nonchalantly. As if a lifesaving device hadn’t just almost disappeared into the trash-strewn abyss. “Normally Mr. Patrick has it in his pocket, but since I’m not near him, Mom gave it to me to hold.” 

Mkay. David quickly snatches it and holds it tight because _Jesus Christ,_ does this kid have a death wish? “You’re being very cavalier with your health and safety, so how about I put it in _my_ pocket?” 

“Really?” 

“Yes, because if you get stung by a bee and start to blow up, I don’t think we can afford to waste time while you claw your epipen out with your one working hand.” 

If Max is scared by David’s rather morbid description, he doesn’t show it. No, he’s barely phased as he shrugs and takes another gulp of water. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” David breathes, holding the epipen in a sweaty vice grip, terrified to even stick it in his shallow pockets. He settles for placing it in the outside mesh of the cooler, visible at all times and always within reach, because where David goes, the snacks are sure to follow. 

He spares a thought for poor Jeannie who has to deal with this terrifying bullshit on a daily basis. 

Movement out of the corner of his eye catches his attention and he glances over to find Max attempting to scratch at the skin beneath his cast. 

“Itchy?” 

“Yeah,” he grumbles. 

“I was told to stick a wire coat hanger in there when I was a kid, but apparently you’re not supposed to do that. Learned that after the fact,” he mutters as he whips out his phone. 

“What did you break?” Max asks. 

_My spirit._ “Ironically enough, my wrist.” He gently nudges him. “Same one.” 

“Twins!” Max says excitedly, as if David’s break happened yesterday instead of thirty years ago. 

“Sure,” he chuckles, looking at the results from his google search. “Okay, it says you’re supposed to get a hair dryer and put it on cool and blow air down there. Also, you can knock on the cast with a hand or wooden spoon. Vibration should help.” 

“Huh,” Max says, looking at the cast for a moment before tapping at it like he’s playing chopsticks on the piano. 

David watches with amusement. “Working?” 

“Not really.” 

“Maybe better luck with the hair dryer.” David looks out over the field. The score is still 0-0 and Patrick’s team is up to bat. “That color looks very dashing on you, though,” he says, wincing at the sight of get-well messages scribbled out in childish scrawl. 

Still, silver on black is never a mistake. 

“Thanks,” Max says, lifting up the cast as if to show it off. “I’d ask you to sign it, too, but I didn’t bring my sharpie.” 

“Oh. Well,” David digs around in the cooler, which might as well be Mary Poppins’ fucking carpet bag at this point, “I brought you another in case that one ran out, so...” He pulls out the marker and hands it over - 

And you’d think he just offered Max a new nose without going through the rigamarole of breaking it first (not that he needs one, cute little button that he has) going by the joy lighting up his face.

“Oh good!” he beams. “I saved a spot for you.” 

“You did?” David’s... oddly touched by that. 

“Uh huh, right here under Mr. Patrick. He signed it at the first practice I came to. See?” He shoves the cast under David’s chin, sure enough, finger pointing at the space right beneath his husband’s familiar but nearly illegible chicken scratch. 

**Feel better, Max! - Mr. P**

“A lot of people have signed this,” David murmurs, taking a moment to look at them all. “You must have a lot of friends.” Max seems like the kind who would. Easygoing. Quick to like. Not unlike the man David married. 

“I guess,” Max mutters with another shrug. It looks far too comfortable a gesture for someone so small, that disinterested, diversionary shrug. David has mastered it. Max shouldn’t have to. Not yet, anyway. 

“You don’t?” 

“I mean, I have a lot of friends,” he clarifies, pointing out to the field. “But I don’t think I have a best friend, ya know?” 

_Oh._ “I do, actually,” he whispers. 

“A lot of people have a best friend and I don’t have that.” 

“You will,” David murmurs, nudging him gently again. “Sometimes best friends take time.” He tries to layer that sentence with meaning, with the kind of hindsight that only comes from experience, but he also doesn’t want to tell him he may have to wait another quarter century. 

“Do you have a best friend?” Max asks. 

“I do.” He smiles, catching sight of his husband in the dugout, reapplying the sunscreen David gave him. “Two, in fact.” Three if you count Alexis, but they don’t need to unpack _that_ sibling dynamic at the moment. “But it took us a long time to find each other,” he says instead. “So, you know, don’t despair if you haven’t found yours yet by age four.”

Max laughs and tries to look outraged. “I’m seven!” 

“Oh excuse me, my bad,” he says with deference and a knowing smile. “I _thought_ you seemed wise beyond your years.” 

But then Max’s laughter hitches a bit, the faux outrage turning more melancholic. “Mom says that, too.” 

David frowns down at him. A bat hits a ball and the crowd erupts, but he doesn’t move. “That you’re wise beyond your years?” 

“Yeah. When she gets sad. She tries to hide it from me, but I can tell.” 

David thinks of locked closets and open pill bottles and discarded wigs and sighs. “Kids usually can.” 

But then something happens on the field that has Max on his feet screaming for someone named Kylie to run. David stands a second later and claps, but his heart isn’t in it. From the looks of things, Kylie is rounding third so good for her, but there’s something he thinks he needs to say. Something that, maybe, might have helped little David had anyone ever bothered to make time for him. 

“Hey, you know, it’s okay for you to be sad, too.” 

Kylie stumbles across home plate and Max cheers, arms raised in the air, silver sharpie catching the sun. “Mr. David, we can’t be sad today!” 

He can’t help but laugh, the enthusiasm infectious. “Why not?” 

Max looks up at him, pushing the marker into his hand and turning his cast so David can reach the spot saved just for him. And he utters something that makes David wonder if fate didn’t crash land this kid into their lives to give them a taste of what this is like without any of the pressure. Without any of the love or liability. This kid with a jersey on his back and a black cast on his arm.

“Because baseball,” he firmly states. 

David's terrified he feels it all anyway.


	6. Chapter 6

David allows Patrick to display the championship trophy in the window of Rose Apothecary for all of an hour before relegating it to behind the cash, where it is permitted to stay for one week before being banished to the back room and, eventually (hopefully), to their attic where David never has to lay eyes on it again. 

At least until Patrick goes and wins them another one. 

Yes, little league is over, but Max still orbits around their lives. Sometimes in the Cafe, sometimes around town. And sometimes in the form of an overzealous text: 

**[Jeannie]**  
 **MR PATRICK I MISS BASEBALL** **⚾️⚾️⚾️⚾️⚾️**

A somewhat sheepish message follows it up a minute later: 

**[Jeannie[**   
**Sorry about that. Clearly time to change my passcode.**   
**Again.**

But David doesn’t actually see him in the store until over a month after that last game, newly emancipated from his cast and chattering a mile a minute as the bell over the door rings. Max pauses long enough to inhale a gasp worthy of Moira Rose only to spin around and exhale it on a whimper. 

Jeannie plops a hand down on his head and ruffles his hair, but it does nothing to ease his pout. “See? I told you, baby. No Halloween costumes.”

David thoroughly ignores the way Patrick raises his eyebrows at him. Despite their practical non-existence, David can read the _I told you so_ in the arch. His husband had lobbied hard for more holiday fare, but David drew the line at colored neoprene. 

“Sorry, bud,” Patrick says, coming around the counter to lean against it, crossing his arms and shaking his head like he’s about to deliver news that Lassie fell down a well. “I guess we’re just not that kind of store.” He throws David another look, and David executes an eye roll that would rival his sister’s most scathing.

“But, Mom, the party’s Friday! As in the day after tomorrow!” 

“Don’t panic, baby, that’s a whole 48 hours away,” Jeannie says casually, throwing Patrick and David a wide-eyed look of terror the second Max gets distracted by the stick pencils.

“I thought he was a planner,” Patrick murmurs as Jeannie gets closer and she stifles a groan.

“All of the superhero costumes looked ‘cheap,” she says, air quotes included, and David nods. 

“I mean - that’s fair.”

She mirrors Patrick, leaning against the center table and crossing her arms. She looks exhausted. “And I tried, but… life.” 

“Also fair,” Patrick says, nudging her shoe with his boot. She gives him a sad smile. 

“You really don’t have anything for Halloween? No ex-husband hexes?” 

“Oooh,” David shimmies, pawing at Patrick’s shoulders. “See, honey? Now that’s a product I could get behind. Do you think Twyla knows anyone?”

“Mommmmm, what are we gonna doooooo?” Max whines from the corner where he’s wrapped a cat hair scarf around his neck. Surprisingly, David is not as upset about this as he thinks he should be. Maybe it’s because Max is handling it with care, carefully stroking the soft fabric instead of playing or tugging. 

“Where’s Waldo?” Patrick pitches.

“Overdone,” David immediately vetoes. “And no puns. He’s not Ted.” 

“Who’s Ted?” he hears Jeannie whisper but any explanation Patrick gives is drowned out as David begins to pace the length of the store, palms of his hands pressed to his forehead.

He can do this. He helped find the strippers for Miley Cyrus’s 21st birthday party at the Roosevelt with 36 hours’ notice for fuck’s sake. Granted, finding something more age appropriate could present some problems - _oh_.

“I’ve got it!” he announces, staring at Max who’s looking at him like all of his hallowed hopes and spooky dreams rest on whatever’s about to come out of David’s mouth. 

“Well don’t leave us in suspense, babe,” Patrick grins. A reveal like this takes build-up, though, so what he says instead is: 

“Do you have rain boots?” 

Jeannie frowns, and shares a look with Max. “Yes?” 

“What color are they?”

“Um, black.” 

“Great, would you be opposed to spray-painting them silver?”

“NOT AT ALL,” Max cries, gently but quickly unwinding the scarf so he can hop (literally) closer to the conversation. “Silver sounds awesome!” 

“You’re about to grow out of them, baby, so don’t get attached,” Jeannie reminds, getting a hand on her bouncy son and stilling him. 

But David’s on a roll now, shaking out his hands, ideas swirling. “What about fun, funky clothes? The sparklier, the better.” 

Again, Jeannie and Max share a look. “Um… I’m not sure we have much in the way of sparkles…” 

He can feel Patrick’s patient gaze on him, supporting him with a soft smile. No, he has no clue where this is going, but David does and that’s all he needs to know. 

“Wait - ” Jeannie claps her hands, “Max had to dress up like the solar system a couple of years ago for school. I got him some navy blue, sort of glittery pants. I think we still have them.”

“But they’re too short for me now!” 

She leans down and boops him on the nose, and the move reminds David so much of Alexis that, for a second, he’s winded. “And that won’t matter if you’re wearing rain boots,” she points out. 

David clears his throat, and Patrick’s patient look turns knowing. “That’s perfect,” he manages, getting them back on track. “Very workable. What about tops?” 

“I think I have a silver shirt I haven’t worn in like a decade. But it would obviously be too big for him.” 

“Not a problem, does he have time for a fitting tonight?” 

“A fitting?” Jeannie laughs. “Are you serious?” 

“I’m always serious about costumes.” 

“David,” Patrick prompts, the _It’s time_ evident in his fond tone. 

_Right_. He takes a deep breath, holding his arms out and bracing himself, before exhaling - 

“Bowie.” 

Jeannie and Patrick both push off their respective counters, eyes wide and goddamn _elated_. “Bowie!”

The boy this is all for, though, looks utterly lost. “What’s a Bowie?” 

“Max!” Jeannie cries, a playful scold, before launching into the opening beat of one of David’s favorite songs. “Do do do do-do do doo. Do do do do-do do doo.”

“PRESSURE!” Max bellows, “PUSHING DOWN ON ME!” He doesn’t know the rest of the words but he keeps on going with the beat, “Do do do do-do do doo”ing all around the store. He and David will clearly be having a follow-up seminar on the iconic stylings of fellow legend Freddie Mercury at a later date.

Patrick stares. “I am… incredibly impressed. Next open mic night, I’ll save him a slot.” 

“Okay, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” David whispers, sidling up to him and tilting his head to receive the kiss Patrick presses to his cheek. 

“Inspired, babe.” 

“Mm, I try.” 

“So, what’s the plan?” Jeannie asks, looking younger and infinitely lighter than she did when she came in ten minutes ago. 

“How about you get the clothes together and come over to ours tonight. I’ll resize things and work on them tomorrow so he has them on Friday.” 

“David.” Jeannie looks stricken. “That’s too much work.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he replies. It is a lot of work, but it’s work he enjoys. And if it makes the kid still quietly ‘do do do do-do do doo’ing all around their store happy, then. Yeah, David thinks it’s work well spent. “Honey, can you call the party store in Elm Glen and see if they have silver spray paint and orange hair spray? If not, maybe the hardware store. You never know. And worse comes to worst, there’s always Amazon, but fuck capitalism.”

“Swear jar!” Max calls and David spins around, betrayed. 

“What the hell?” he hisses. 

“On it,” Patrick replies with a chuckle, pulling his phone from his pocket and stepping away to dial as David turns back to Jeannie.

“He has the ears of a fucking bat,” he mutters. “Anyway, you can just come over before the party, his outfit will be ready, and I’ll do his hair and makeup then. What time is it?” 

Jeannie looks overwhelmed. “Um, trick-or-treating starts at 5pm and the party's at 6:30pm. Is that too early? I know you guys don’t close until - ” 

But David waves her off. “That’s why I married my business partner.” 

She laughs, but it’s a wet sound, and her eyes fill as she takes a ragged inhale. “Sorry, Jesus,” she mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose and turning away from Max, who’s thankfully occupied once more by something in the opposite corner. 

David isn’t great with human emotions in general so he flounders, settling for an awkward pat on the shoulder while reaching for the box of tissues by the cash. He spares a glance for Patrick who finally hangs up and turns around, satisfied expression immediately morphing into one of concern. 

They have one of their silent conversations, solely made up of widening eyes and flapping arms, the gist of which boils down to _What the hell happened?_ and _I have no fucking idea._

“Hey,” Patrick murmurs, getting an arm around Jeannie’s shoulder and carefully shielding her with his body just in case Max should happen to turn around. “You okay?” 

“Ugh, sorry. It’s been a hell of a year,” she manages, gratefully taking a tissue. “Didn’t think a fucking Halloween costume, of all things, would be the thing to unravel me, though.” 

“You’re not unraveled,” Patrick says, staring at David with his _I have a plan_ face. Sometimes that means a boost in sales for the store and sometimes it means mind-blowing sex for David. 

David has a strong suspicion neither option is applicable here. 

“Max, you wanna take a trip?” Patrick calls over his shoulder. 

“Where?” 

“We’re in luck. Turns out the party store has orange hair spray and the hardware store has silver spray paint. Just like Mr. David said.” 

“Sweet!” Max calls as Patrick squeezes Jeannie once more before letting go. 

“Go home,” he says quietly. “Take a bath. Have a glass of wine. Then come over with the clothes and have some chili while my husband turns your son into Ziggy Stardust.” 

Jeannie laughs, looking up at them with red eyes and blowing out a heavy breath. “You’re sure?” 

“Positive. I’ve got him,” Patrick says, nodding back at Max hovering by the door already itching to go. Then he nods at David. “He’s got you.” 

And while that’s quite the responsibility to place on his shoulders, not a single day goes by that David Rose isn’t reminded that he married a good, decent man. 

“Okay,” Jeannie whispers, smiling as Patrick grabs the keys from David’s back pocket without getting too handsy and presses a kiss to his cheek again. “Be good!” she calls to her son who waves in return.

“Onward, Maximus,” Patrick intones, prompting Max to draw and salute a phantom sword. He heard David use it again at the championship celebration and it just stuck. David can’t say he’s disappointed. It’s kind of nice, having an inside joke that’s just theirs. 

The bell over the door signals their departure and David and Jeannie stand in semi-awkward silence for a moment. 

“Well,” he starts, “it’s just past 4pm. If we’re going to stuff a day’s worth of relaxation into a matter of hours, we better start now.” He whirls about the store, pulling out a face mask and a bath bomb and a bottle of wine and stuffing them into a Rose Apothecary tote, tossing in a lip balm for good measure and holding the bag out for her, but she’s already shaking her head. 

“David, you have to let me pay for these. Your husband just left to buy my son some of his Halloween accessories. You’re doing _manual labor_ for a _children’s_ _costume party_.” 

Well, she’s not _wrong_. “Fine. You can pay for the mask and the bath bomb, but it’s buy two get wine free so…” 

She shakes her head and bites her lip. “And the lip balm?” 

He throws up his hands. “My store, my rules!”

She laughs in surrender and slowly backs away toward the door, but not before putting enough cash on the counter to cover everything, despite his protestations. “I know I said it’s been a hell of a year, but you guys have been a bright spot. Truly.” She holds up the tote but gestures all around. “Thank you for this.” He knows she means for more than just the products. For more than just today.

He nods and watches her go, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly. He’s not sure why he cares. It’s just Halloween. Like Jeannie said, it’s just a children’s costume party, not the Met fucking Gala. 

But he cares because Max is a good kid with a wide-eyed expression that reminds him a little too much of his husband. Because he has a dad who never bothers to show up despite the fact that his kid is fucking _fantastic_ and it takes a lot for David Rose to think that of someone under the age of twenty. 

So he’s going to make this costume as if Anna Wintour asked him personally because that’s what Maximus Cantwell deserves. 

He finishes out the day and easily handles the minimal post-work rush, closing the store and leaving some of the more menial tasks for the morning. Even still, by the time he gets home, Max is already at the table in the kitchen doing his homework as Patrick stirs the chili that’s been in the slow-cooker all day. It’s so ridiculously domestic that David has to stop in the doorway and just watch for a second. 

“Mr. Patrick?” 

“Yeah?” 

“What’s three times three?” 

“You tell me,” Patrick replies, and David rolls his eyes fondly.

“But I don’t _know_. That’s why I’m asking _you._ ” 

But Patrick doesn’t give in. “Count it out, bud. You can do it.”

Max grumbles but starts writing on his worksheet. “I thought Mr. David said you were the numbers guy.” 

Patrick barks out a laugh as he checks something that smells fucking delicious in the oven. “Did he now,” he murmurs, and David knows he’s caught. Sure enough, Patrick glances his way a second later with a teasing grin. “Welcome home, babe.” 

“And what a welcome,” he says, finally entering the kitchen and waving at Max as he accepts a hug from his husband. Turns out the dish in the oven is homemade cornbread and it takes every ounce of his will power and Patrick’s not-inconsiderable powers of persuasion to keep him from diving into it early. 

Jeannie arrives just as Max is finishing up his spelling, looking relaxed and overcome that her son is already finished his homework for the night. Which he proves by promptly shouting, “Mom, three times three is nine!” at her before she even gets her coat off. 

They all load up bowls of chili while Max tries on the outfit. He wasn’t wrong, the pants are too short, but the rain boots cover his ankles and the silver shirt Jeannie brought is v-neck and ridiculous and perfect once David can size it so it’s not falling off Max’s shoulders. She had brought a couple of extra items as well, apparently discarded clothes from well-meaning relatives post-divorce, which David pokes through and deems possibly worthy as embellishments, but not much else. He swaps his spoon for pins between his lips as he folds and tucks, gently tapping Max with a hand when he gets too wiggly. 

“I can use the extra fabric from this to make some shoulder pads,” David mumbles, trying not to swallow the final pin clenched between his teeth. He tucks it into the hem of the shirt and steps back to admire his work. Humming, he pulls a blue satin camisole from the pile of extras that doesn’t quite match the navy of the pants, but it’s close enough. “This, too,” he says, glancing up at Jeannie, “if you don’t mind me taking my scissors to it.”

“God, please,” she urges over the rim of her wine glass, sharing a giggle with Patrick beside her on the couch, like bespoke tailoring is a spectator sport. 

“Where did you learn how to do this?” Patrick asks and David would look offended if he had the time. 

“Um, who do you think made all of my Little Mister costumes? Also, I interned for a summer at McQueen.” 

Jeannie snorts and whispers something to Patrick that has his cheeks blushing.

“Yeah, he really is,” is his husband’s reply and now David can feel his ears going hot. 

Max has been remarkably well-behaved, going through the schedule for the evening in a detail that, frankly, David’s Bar Mitzvah planner could have learned from. David nods and hums along, not really paying attention as he helps Max out of the shirt without dislodging any of the pins, until the kid goes and says: 

“And then we get judged.” 

David pauses. “I’m sorry - you get judged?” 

“Yeah,” Max states, like it’s obvious. “For the contest.” 

“The _what_?” 

“The contest,” Max repeats, slowly and looking at Patrick for reassurance that David isn’t an idiot. 

“You didn’t tell me there was a _contest_!” he yells, looking from Max to Patrick as if they’ve kept this from him on purpose. Jeannie, as always, is innocent and currently emptying her wine glass into her mouth to keep from laughing. 

Oh, David wishes he hadn’t known that information.

Because now there’s something to _win_. 

Patrick, knowing his husband only all too well, distracts him with more cornbread, and he and Jeannie eventually get each of their boys to settle down and say goodnight. 

Still, David spends the entire next day envisioning the completed outfit in his mind, drawing up sketches and patterns for the shoulder pads in his notebook and studying the signature lightning bolt makeup harder than he did for his SATs. 

The evening is lost to his needle and thread, Patrick left to fend for himself for dinner and entertainment, and by the time he feels that steady hand press between his aching shoulders, he blinks his bloodshot eyes at the clock on the wall to see it’s after midnight. 

“Come to bed, babe,” Patrick murmurs, presses a kiss to the tip of his ear. 

But David shakes his head, cutting the last sliver of the blue camisole for the final piece of the shoulder pad. “No, there’s a costume contest and I’ll be damned if our kid doesn’t win.” 

Patrick stills and, yes, he knows what he said, but he didn’t mean it like _that_. Max is just like a horse in the Kentucky Derby that they put their money on.

“David,” Patrick playfully admonishes, and _oh my God_ did he say that out loud? “Yes,” Patrick chuckles. “You did.”

Okay, perhaps he should go to bed. 

“You’re gonna get laid so well tonight, David Rose.” 

David slips and glares but has to shift in his seat. “Not while I’m holding _scissors_ , Mr. Brewer.” 

“I’m just sayin’,” Patrick backs away towards the stairs, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes, “there’s an expiration on the offer.” 

David wiggles in his chair, gaze darting between the drying rain boots and the silver shirt and the shoulder pads that need just _one last piece of fabric_.

“Ten minutes,” he begs and Patrick grins, dropping his button-up over the railing so he can tug his t-shirt over his head. 

“I’ll be counting.”

David groans and his fingers shake, but he snips the final piece of thread in eight minutes and 33 seconds, leaving everything where it is on the table and proceeding to trip over himself in his haste to make it up the stairs. 

Luckily, Patrick makes it worth the wait. 

Halloween itself arrives in a gust of cold wind and swirling leaves, and David leaves the store early so he can greet Max and Jeannie at the cottage. By the time Patrick gets home, David is blow-drying Max’s curls back off his forehead and applying gel to keep the slicked back look in place. Then he sprays the hell out of it, turning Max’s auburn hair dark orange. 

There’s a small makeup correction, a semi-smeared lightning bolt that has to be fixed after Max forgets it’s on his face. And if the kid has any concerns that David is currently swiping hot pink eyeshadow over his lids, he doesn’t voice them. Neither does Jeannie, who’s like her own one woman TMZ, snapping photos of the process and ‘oooh’ing over David’s technique. 

David finally steps back and takes in his work, nodding slowly as Max does a little spin. He looks fucking fantastic if he does say so himself, striking a pose, hip cocked out and hand in the air so Jeannie can snag another picture. David may or may not be asking for a copy. 

They bid them farewell and are proud that their candy is the first in Max’s trick-or-treat bag. It’s a steady stream of tiny minions after that, coming to the door with their polystyrene, begging like orphans in a Dickens novel. The smug smile never quite leaves David’s face at knowing Max is the best dressed so far. 

Sure enough, a text arrives just after 7:30pm while Patrick is cracking open his second beer and David is on his fifth fun-sized Snickers. Patrick swipes open his phone and smiles at the screen, sticking it out to show David. 

**[Jeannie]**   
**There are three Captain Americas, two Iron Mans, and a Wonder Woman. All store bought. He’s the hit of the party.**

David grins and wraps his arms around his husband’s waist as the phone buzzes again.

**[Jeannie]**   
**After all, there’s only one we need:**

“Only one what?” David asks, but there’s a video attachment, and he rests his chin on Patrick’s shoulder as he clicks the thumbnail and waits for it to load. 

It’s Max. Lip-syncing his fucking heart out to David Bowie’s ‘Heroes.’ He feels more than hears Patrick’s inhale beneath his hands clasped across his chest. 

“Look at him go,” he breathes. 

“Look at him go,” David echoes, feeling… proud? Yeah. Yes. 

Feeling really fucking _proud_. 

When the next message arrives an hour later, it’s an inevitability; neither is really surprised. And the fact that it’s addressed to him decidedly does _not_ make his heart trip a bit in his chest.

**[Jeannie]**   
**MR DAVID I WON**

Nope. 

Not at all.


	7. Chapter 7

Christmas arrives in a panicked haze of vendor restocks and in-law preparations. Both the Brewers and the Roses will be descending upon Schitt’s Creek and David honestly isn’t sure the town is entirely prepared. _He_ sure as hell isn’t. 

At Thanksgiving, his mom had to film so she and his dad stayed in LA, and Alexis didn’t want to celebrate because American Thanksgiving was just around the corner and there are apparently only so many complex carbohydrates she allows herself to have every quarter, so he, Patrick, and Stevie spent the holiday at the Brewers’ because nobody cooks a turkey quite like his father-in-law. 

But now it’s December 23rd and he’s elbow deep in a mammoth bag of Hershey kisses, peeling the foil off for Marcy who’s rolling out balls of dough for peanut butter blossoms. Clint is doing something handy with a stubborn shelve in the living room, and Patrick is out back chopping wood because the leather log holder by the fireplace was running low and also because it’s the sexiest fucking thing David has ever seen. He watches carefully through the kitchen window above the sink just to confirm it’s still true and it is.

The doorbell breaks his reverie, and he tears his eyes away from the sight of Patrick’s broad back even through his winter coat to look over his shoulder with a frown.

“Got it!” Clint calls, but David edges away from the sink anyway. Alexis doesn’t get in until late tonight and his parents aren’t arriving until tomorrow. And Stevie just walks right in (though perhaps not as much after she walked in on them naked on the couch), so he has no idea who it could be. He hears a slight chuckle before Clint announces, “David, I think it’s for you.” 

He shares a confused look with Marcy, wiping his hands on a dishtowel as he walks through the living room - 

“Merry Christmas, Mr. David!” a tiny voice pipes up before David is even at the door. 

“Max?” comes Jeannie’s prompting voice from somewhere outside and he backpedals. 

“I mean - Happy Hanukkah!” 

David can’t help it, he laughs. “Well, thank you, Max, but I’m a convenient half-half situation so either is fine.” 

“Ah, the famous Max,” Clint murmurs with a smile. “I’ll go get Patrick.” He disappears through the house to the back, and David spares a thought to wonder what his husband has told his parents about the kid who’s somehow folded himself (like cheese) into their lives without even really meaning to. 

David glances down at the shoddily wrapped presents stacked in Max’s arms. Clearly they will be having a workshop later. 

“Whatcha got there?” he asks, waving at Jeannie who’s leaning against her car in the driveway. 

“Presents for you and Mr. Patrick.”

“Presents for Mr. Patrick?” the man himself says wrapping an arm around David’s waist from behind because his timing has always been impeccable. 

“Um, _and_ me,” David responds, leaning back against Patrick’s chest as Patrick tucks his chin over David’s shoulder, his cheek cold from working out back. 

“Merry Christmas, Max. Thank you so much,” his husband says, leaning down and taking the presents from his arms. “You guys wanna come in?” he calls to Jeannie, a knit toque shoved down on her head that matches the one on her son’s. David hates matching outfits on principle, but he’ll make an exception for the occasional accessory. Especially when they look as well made as those. He may have to ask her where she got them. 

“We’ve got places to be,” she replies, raising her hand in thanks anyway. 

“We’re going to Nana and Granddad’s!” Max replies, with all the enthusiasm of someone who knows that treats and gifts await him upon arrival. 

“You sure? I just made hot chocolate,” David calls, ignoring Patrick’s muttered, “ _I_?” He elbows him for his disrespect and amends with a mumbled, “We.” Off his look, he lets out an indignant, “What? I helped!” 

Max spins around, nearly slipping on the ice that Patrick couldn’t quite break up that morning. David gets a steadying hand on his shoulder since Patrick’s are full. “Mom, pleeeeeassssseee?” 

Jeannie seems to be close to giving in, which only strengthens Max’s resolve (and his pout). “On the stove?” 

“You know it,” Patrick replies as David rolls his eyes with a haughty, “Obviously.” Though he isn’t above a Swiss Miss packet. Beggars can’t be choosers. 

“Okay, just a quick one,” she relents, pushing off the car as Max yells, “Yes!” loud enough to startle the birds in the trees. 

David laughs because he shares Max’s enthusiasm for sweet things, which is only further cemented when Max tugs Patrick down so he can whisper, “Be careful with the top one, it’s a pie” in his ear.

“You got it,” Patrick intones seriously, catching David’s eye over the boy’s head and holding out the presents so David can pluck the top one off the pile with his already grabby hands. 

It’s still warm and smells vaguely chocolatey, though that could just be the hot chocolate on the stove. There are so many sugary options in David’s immediate future and he’s honestly not sure he’ll be able to contain himself. 

“Oh my God, you have family here,” he hears Jeannie blurt as she wipes her boots on the mat. 

“Just my parents,” Patrick replies, but there’s no ‘just’ about Marcy and Clint Brewer. 

David smiles widely at his mother-in-law, presenting the wrapped pie like it’s baby Simba on Pride Rock. Marcy takes it reverently and then bends down so she’s eye level with Max, who’s on his toes and sniffing the hot chocolate in the air like he’s in a goddamn Looney Tunes cartoon. 

“Mom, Dad, that’s Max and this is Jeannie,” Patrick says, taking Jeannie’s coat. “These are my parents, Clint and Marcy Brewer.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Clint says as he comes over to shake her hand. “We’ve heard a lot about you.” 

“Uh oh,” she replies uneasily, searching out David’s eyes but he gives her a warm smile in return. 

“All good things,” Marcy says to Max, which David agrees with - until he looks down and clocks Max’s feet. 

“Except for your son’s absolutely _atrocious_ habit of not taking his snow boots off before he comes inside,” he states to amused chuckles, putting the present on the couch so he can pick Max up and promptly hand him to Patrick who carries him to the door and places him back down on the mat, bending down to help him with his laces. 

Jeannie has already left her boots by the coat rack like a proper house guest before allowing Marcy to usher her into the kitchen, but David lingers, watching Max steady himself on Patrick’s shoulders as he wrestles with a stubborn knot. Max giggles beneath his toque, face flush from the layers and warmth of the fireplace. 

“Ah ha!” Patrick cries, finally tugging the boot from Max’s foot and nearly sending the kid sprawling onto the floor. He stays upright only by digging his fingers into the collar of Patrick’s shirt. They’re both a laughing mess and David feels such a swell of… something. Contentment, maybe, that he doesn’t even hear Patrick the first time he says his name. 

“Huh, what?” He blinks to see that his husband has hoisted Max into his arms like he’s Tiny fucking Tim and has him halfway to the kitchen. 

“Hot chocolate?” Patrick prompts again, a slightly concerned look gracing his face. He probably should be concerned if it takes David more than one verbal cue to respond to the offer of sweets. “They need to get on the road.”

“Right, of course,” David mumbles, ignoring the searching look Patrick throws his way again, instead opting to nudge his back as if it’s his husband’s fault they’re delayed to chocolatey goodness in the first place.

Patrick places Max at the kitchen table, and David looks over to see that Marcy has already set Jeannie up with a mug and Clint is handing her the bag of mini marshmallows. Max’s socked feet swing in the chair, his little body bouncing as he waits as patiently as he possibly can for someone to hand him his own. 

Patrick pulls out his favorite Blue Jays mug for the kid, ladling it full and passing it off to David to hand to Max. Then he pours David’s in his prized Rose Apothecary mug, the one Patrick had specially made for him for their first Christmas together. 

“Maximus,” David murmurs, placing the nearly overflowing drink down on the table in front of him. Max immediately picks it up and brings it to his lips, and David makes a noise of distress. “Blow on it, you monster, it’s hot! You’ll burn off all your taste buds and I don’t know if they grow back!”

Max’s eyes go wide and he looks to his mom for confirmation.

“He’s right, baby. Once they’re gone, there’s no gettin’ them back. What if you can never taste mac and cheese again?” 

A slow look of horror washes over Max’s face then, before he bends down, chin propped up on his fists, and spends the next 45 seconds blowing continuously over the lip of his mug.

“Well played,” Patrick murmurs, cheersing Jeannie’s mug with his own as David looks at them both, unwilling to admit he’s not one hundred percent sure if they’re lying or not. 

Marcy must sense his confused embarrassment and takes pity on him because she’s perfect, beckoning him over to hand him his Rose Apothecary mug, full to the brim with marshmallows because his mother-in-law knows him down to his bones. Not unlike her son. 

Clint strikes up a conversation with Jeannie about wherever it is that her parents’ live - David missed that part in his struggle to understand his taste buds. Turns out it’s not far from where Clint grew up and they spiral down a rapid fire dialogue about mutually known locations that David tunes out at the first mention of a hiking trail. 

Marcy pops the oven door open, placing the two trays of balled dough onto the rack, and sets the timer for eight minutes. She watches Patrick join Max at the table and David watches her, knowing he’s only hurting himself by trying to read any wistfulness in her face. 

“Max, you looked fantastic at Halloween,” she compliments, pointing to the picture Jeannie snapped of him striking a pose, currently held to the door of their refrigerator with a Rose Apothecary magnet.

“I’m on your fridge?” Max asks, craning his neck to get a better look and nearly falling out of his chair in the process, clearly reluctant to leave his beverage for any length of time. David respects that. Even if the kid is giving him a minor heart attack. 

“Of course you are,” Patrick says, hooking his foot on the leg of Max’s chair and tugging him around the table so he can see the photo without risk to life and limb. 

“Some of my finest work,” David preens, withering only a tad under Patrick’s glare. 

“Which Max pulled off with aplomb.” 

Jeannie snorts into her hot chocolate, sending a marshmallow plummeting to the floor. Clint hides a laugh behind a dishtowel, and David feels attacked on all sides. 

How the hell did he marry into a family whose love language is trolling? 

“What’s ‘a plum?” Max asks. 

“ _Aplomb_ ,” Patrick corrects. “Self-confidence. Assurance. Which Mr. David achieves on a daily basis.”

David flushes as Max looks over at him, head tilted to the side in contemplation. “So it’s a good thing.” 

“A very good thing,” Patrick says with an approximation of a wink in David’s direction and, okay. All is forgiven. 

Jeannie and Clint return to their conversation, and David chances another glance at Marcy. She’s watching her son chat with Max about something school-related judging by the incandescent eye roll the kid just executed. He studies Marcy’s features, searching for something he’d really rather not know. He’s aware that Patrick told his parents they wouldn’t be getting grandchildren. Hell, David had offered to be there when Patrick brought it up, but it never became a _thing_. It was never a Conversation, capital C. It came about organically, Marcy calling to ask if Patrick wanted to keep any of his old things: toys, clothes, gear from when he was a kid. They were doing a spring cleaning purge and the attic was first on the list. Patrick said that he’d go through it next time he was home in case there was anything he wanted to hang onto for sentiment’s sake, like his first baseball glove, but no, he and David wouldn’t be needing anything for a child.

And that was that. 

Knowing what he knows of his in-laws and how much love they have to share, David’s sure there was disappointment. A rearranging of a certain way of thinking, an adjustment to a different future than the one they might have imagined for themselves. But it never manifested into anything. Any pressure, any second-guessing, any reverse psychology. 

Even in this moment, confronted by what they won’t ever get to have, David keeps searching Marcy’s face but it’s - 

The disappointment he’s looking for is honestly just not _there_. Marcy watches her son fondly, casually; with amusement every time Max’s voice raises with indignation about his times tables (“But _why_? We have _calculators_!”), which Patrick refutes because he’ll defend numbers to the death, the nerd.

Clint and Jeannie are also focused on Patrick and Max, and David tries to listen in while distractedly peeling the rest of the Hershey kisses. The cookies will be finished soon and the chocolate has to be pressed into them quickly before they go back into the oven. 

“They’ve been so amazing,” Jeannie murmurs. “Needless to say, he doesn’t exactly have a lot of strong male role models in his life - ” 

“And you think we fit the bill?” David blurts because he just can’t help himself, his flailing arms nearly knocking the bowl of kisses to the kitchen floor. Marcy manages to save them from the edge of the counter at the last second, making David actually reconsider which parent his husband got his reflexes from. 

David is well aware that he sounded slightly hysterical, but a hush has now fallen over the room which only makes everything that much worse. His gaze darts from Patrick, who’s wide-eyed, to Jeannie, who’s amused but also concerned? and then to Marcy and Clint who are both looking at him with matching expressions that seem to say _Oh, David._

Oh _God_. 

“Max, sweetheart,” Marcy begins, “these cookies are almost done, but I might need your help. When they come out, we have to press Hershey kisses very quickly into the middle of the dough so we can get them back into the oven for another minute. Can you do that with me? And then I’m sure you and your mom need to get on the road.”

Max stands like he’s just been drafted into battle. “I can do that,” he says seriously, and Patrick has to bite his lip to hide his smile. David would find it endearing if he wasn’t one missed-breath away from hyperventilation. 

“Wonderful,” Marcy replies, holding out her hand for Max to take and leading him over to the counter. Clint pulls on oven mitts and very purposefully stares at the timer, as if there’s going to be a nuclear detonation when it eventually reaches zero instead of fucking peanut butter blossoms. 

“Oh my God,” David mutters as Jeannie cautiously approaches, sharing a look with Patrick who crowds in on David’s other side. 

“Sorry if I spoke out of turn - ” Jeannie starts.

“You didn’t,” Patrick replies, frowning at David in concern and sneaking a hand beneath his sweater to rub at his back. “We’re…” but Patrick trails off and David finds the word _honored_ popping into his mind, but it’s too much emotion for him to process totally sober. 

“It’s just - ” she shrugs, “if you only knew how often he talks about you.” 

“But…” David shakes his head, matching his breathing to the slow circles Patrick is drawing on his skin, “ _both_ of us?” 

“Yeah,” Jeannie smiles. “Both of you.” 

A raucous interruption comes from the other side of the kitchen, where Marcy, Clint, and Max have started counting down along with the timer like it’s Dick Clark’s New Year’s Fucking Eve. “... eight, seven, six…” 

“Ready?” Clint asks. “Clear a space.” 

“Ready!” Max yells, bowl of peeled Hershey kisses clutched in his hands as he stands on the stool David bought as a joke so Patrick could reach the top shelf in the pantry. “Three, two, one!” 

The oven beeps and Clint whips the trays out like a gunslinger, placing them on the counter but keeping a hand on Max’s shoulder so he doesn’t get too close to the hot metal. Max and Marcy are quick to divvy out the chocolates, pressing them to the centers of each cookie hard enough to crack the dough and hold, but not too hard. 

“Good job, baby,” Jeannie says, leaning over and watching him place the final one. 

Clint puts the trays back in the oven and Marcy resets the timer for two minutes, turning back to hold out her hand for a high five from Max, which he gladly gives. 

“We’ll send you along with a batch,” Marcy offers with the kind of maternal smile David could wrap himself up in. “It’s the least we can do,” she says, patting Max on the head. “You were a huge help.” 

David has never been more grateful for his in-laws than he is in this moment, watching as they take over and navigate things so he can have a mini internal breakdown. 

“Hey,” Patrick whispers, his breath hot through David’s cashmere. “You okay?” 

He nods, because he _is_ , even though he’s pretty sure he resembles a golden retriever watching a ball bounce down the stairs. “Uh huh, good.” 

“Okay,” Patrick says, hand still rubbing in a nice, slow, soothing circle on his back, “because it seems like you might be freaking out a bit.” 

“Nope,” he clips. “No - no freaking. Why would I be freaking?” 

But his infuriating husband just gives him a soft, knowing look. “You’re a good person, David Rose.” 

And he couldn’t stop the smile that splits his face if he tried. “That’s not nice,” he hisses, just in time for Patrick to catch his pouty lips in a kiss. Luckily Max is too busy staring at the cookies through the window of the oven, counting down with the timer once more, or else David’s pretty sure another objection to their PDA would have echoed around the kitchen. Jeannie continues to throw them worried looks, and David wishes he could get his shit together to not cause her any more stress than she’s already likely feeling. 

The timer beeps and Clint rescues the cookies once more while Marcy plates them on a cooling rack. Patrick leaves David with a kiss on the cheek to get a tupperware container so Max can personally pick out which ones he wants to take. Jeannie wanders back over to David and gently nudges him with her shoulder. 

“You doin’ all right there, champ?” 

Ugh, sports terms. They’re _made_ for each other. 

“ _He’s_ the role model,” David whispers, nodding at his husband as he fills Max’s container to the brim. “Not me. I’m the cautionary tale.” 

Jeannie smirks, nods at Max, and then nods at the wrapped present still perched on the back of the couch. “Tell that to him.” 

He doesn’t know what she means so he shakes his head. “If you knew _half_ of the shit I used to get up to, you wouldn’t let him near me.” 

She turns serious for a moment, the mischievous glint that had been in her eye when she approached disappearing for a second. She looks like she did when he first met her, sitting alone in a parking lot, ready to fuck her ex-husband up for hurting her baby boy. “I don’t need to know. That was then. This is now,” she says quietly, shrugging, like it’s just that easy. “David, we’ve all made mistakes. And some of us are still dealing with ours.” She stares at her son and drains the last of her hot chocolate. “But some of our greatest joys come from them, too.” 

“Mr. Patrick, guess what?” Max cries, startling David for a moment.

Patrick snaps the lid on the container and bends down so he can give Max his full attention. “What’s up, bud?” 

“Grandad broke his wrist playing tennis so I can’t play catch _at all_ over break.” 

And Patrick, bless him, reacts accordingly. Then again, he would when baseball is denied. “Oh no, that’s terrible! Tell you what, have your mom give me a call when you’re back and we’ll play some before school starts up. Okay?” 

“Okay!” 

Jeannie shakes her head again. “Is he for real?” 

“I ask myself that question every goddamn day,” he mutters with a smile. Then he nods towards Clint and Marcy, busying themselves with setting up dinner and pretending like they’re not watching the domestic scene unfold in front of them. “Ask them. They made him. It’s their fault.”

“I heard that,” Patrick says, narrowing his gaze at the pair of them as he thunks Max’s hat back on his head. 

Jeannie claps a hand on David’s arm and squeezes. “We need to get going. Merry Christmas, David.” 

“Merry Christmas, Jeannie.” She leans in and presses a kiss to his cheek before turning to take the container of cookies from Max so he can properly throw his arms around Patrick. David watches from his perch against the table as Jeannie hugs both Marcy and Clint, murmuring something to each of them that is for them and them alone. 

Patrick comes over, Max still attached to his hip and leans down to press another kiss to David’s lips, earning only a minimal grumble from Max when he transfers himself from Patrick to David like a barnacle. 

“Oh-kay,” David stutters, patting Max on the back as he squeezes him briefly but tightly. 

“Happy Hanukkah, Mr. David!” Max calls as he runs over to the door to wrestle with his boots, both of them watching him go. Patrick starts to move to help him when David’s voice calls him back. 

“Honey?” 

“Yeah, babe?” 

He thinks of his husband offering to play catch with a boy just because it would make him happy. “You’re a good person, too.” 

Patrick smiles softly, the smile he first bestowed in Ray’s front office that he hasn’t stopped giving since, as he leans in and nudges David’s nose with his own. “Hey, David?” 

“Hm?” 

He smiles cheekily as he backs away towards the front door. “That was nice.”

Jesus, he’s the worst. And God does David love him.

They finish saying their goodbyes, but not before Patrick pulls a wrapped gift from the hall closet and hands it to Max with strict instructions that he’s not to open it until Christmas morning. 

David, however, is not so patient. As soon as Max and Jeannie’s car backs out of the driveway, he dives into the gifts they brought. The pie is homemade chocolate bourbon pecan, Jeannie’s grandmother’s recipe according to the card, which David will be taking a fork to _posthaste_ , but the second wrapped present is… a painting. Sort of. More of a colored pencil-sketch embellished with some simple watercolors on a basic piece of 8.5x11 inch paper; clearly done by a child but one with potential, protected by a basic black frame with a note tape to the edge. 

Patrick opens it up and David leans over his shoulder to read: 

**_Made in art class. The assignment was to draw something that made him happy. xJ._ **

He looks at the painting again, and it’s clearly a baseball field, though the scale is abysmal. He assumes the figure at bat is Max, helmet too big for his head and multitasking to a nonsensical degree with his black cast. 

“Aw, honey, look. He painted you in the dugout,” he says, pointing to someone vaguely resembling his husband, though admittedly the features aren’t defined. “And his mom and dad in the stands.”

Patrick frowns and leans closer, huffing out a quiet laugh and then pressing a kiss to David’s shoulder. 

“I don’t think that’s his dad, David,” he whispers. 

“What? Of course it - ”

But the figure next to Jeannie is dressed in all black, and perhaps the most telling (or most damning) piece of evidence is the box by his feet, helpfully labeled in pencil “snacks.”

Just in case anyone wasn’t sure. 

“Oh,” he breathes.

He sits. 

He stares at the painting for longer than he stared at his first Van Gogh. 

“That’s…” 

“Nice, David,” Patrick murmurs, voice sounding a little rough. “That’s really nice.” 

Yes, he thinks. 

Yes it is.


	8. Chapter 8

If David had to pinpoint a moment, he would say it started just before Christmas on the night after Jeannie and Max left their house, as Patrick spooned him while Marcy and Clint slept in the guest room and Alexis snored on the pullout couch in the office. Snow pattered against the window, and David had found himself distantly hoping Jeannie and Max made it to her parents’ before it started. Which is not where his brain normally drifts while in the arms of his husband. 

That’s how they get you - little moments of _concern_.

Of course Patrick hadn’t let it go, because Patrick never lets things go as long as the difficult things are not his to talk about. It’s something they’ve been working on, and Patrick has gotten better. But still, David knew that if Max was going to continue to pop in and out of their lives that he should probably further explore what exactly sent him into near cardiac arrest in the middle of his own kitchen somewhere between the hot chocolate and the peanut butter blossoms. Arguably, his happy place in legitimately any other scenario. 

“It’s not like she asked us to be his guardians or whatever,” Patrick had murmured against the back of his neck, thumb lazily tracing David’s wedding ring where their fingers were tangled together over his chest. 

“No, I know,” David had said. “And thank God. Though I do feel like we would rise to the occasion just like Kate Hudson in Raising Helen.”

“Okay, David,” Patrick said, in the tone he used when he had no idea what his husband was talking about. “It’s not the end of the world, though.” 

“What isn’t?” He hooked his leg around Patrick’s calf, trying to warm his cold toes.

“That a kid you’re terrified to admit you’ve grown kinda fond of looks up to you.” 

And though his husband has had his number (literally) since B13, David still made a dissenting noise in the back of his throat. “I’m not fond, I’m tolerating. And, no, he looks up to _you_. You’re the soccer mom in this relationship. I’m the one who gets them a fake ID and loads them up with condoms when the time is right.” 

Patrick shifted and got a knee between his thighs, probably to try and get away from David’s cold feet. “I mean - if we’re all still around, you do know he may end up coming to us for that conversation, right?” 

“Oh my _God_!” David hissed. 

But Patrick was right. He _was_ fond. And that feeling was only exacerbated on Christmas morning when a text arrived with a photo of Max in his special holiday pajamas, holding onto the Lego set he had asked Santa for that Santa supposedly let Patrick and David gift him instead because they asked so nicely. Because a kid as _good_ as Max deserves all of the things. 

Santa is incorrect on multiple levels, and it’s not just because David may or may not still be holding a grudge about the whole ‘not real’ business, but that doesn’t stop a print of the photo from joining its Halloween counterpart on the door of their fridge a week later. 

But he truly tips from just tolerating into full blown caring the day the invitation arrives. 

It’s Spiderman-themed, which… David overlooks, though he draws the line at pinning it anywhere within eye line. 

Max’s 8th birthday is on February 10th, and Patrick and David are invited to a party. The fact that David doesn’t immediately veto the idea, or worse, scoff at it entirely is just further proof of his heart’s betrayal. He even quirks a smile at the messy scrawl on the front of their personally addressed envelope that Jeannie had apparently dropped off at the store during one of her crack of dawn visits. 

**MR. PATRICK AND MR. DAVID**

**CARE OF ROSE APOTH** ~~ **ACARRY**~~ **ECARY**

He also pretends he doesn’t notice Patrick rescue said envelope from the recycling. 

February 10th arrives on a blustery cloud of grey, and they close the store at 3:30pm in order to make it before the cake is cut. The fact that Patrick is willingly losing even an hour of sales four days before Valentine’s Day says something that David isn’t ready to unpack yet. Because then he’d have to admit he’s willing to lose them too, solely to attend a child’s birthday party. 

They’re still late, though, thanks to Mr. Hockley’s inability to read a vendor agreement, sending his tea willy nilly five days early and causing a mad scramble to help unload (Patrick) while also accomplishing all of the closing duties (... also Patrick). In his defense, David was too busy perfectly wrapping the awkwardly shaped gift Patrick refused to put in a box, which his husband is now clutching in an anxious grip as he excitedly bounces on the balls of his feet. 

“Did you ring the bell?” 

Patrick huffs. “Yes, I rang the bell.” 

“Maybe they didn’t hear it.” Music thumps from the other side of the door and there’s more than one youthful scream. 

_Abort_ , his brain screams, but _somehow_ his body disobeys.

“Try knocking,” leaves his lips instead, though, as Max’s frustratingly cherubic face flashes before his eyes. 

“Well if they didn’t hear the bell then they’re not going to hear a knock, David.” 

“Oh my God, just open the door!” And as if magicked by his annoyance alone, the door swings back and Jeannie stands there looking harried but happy to see them all the same. 

"I thought I heard the bell."

“Hey, I’m sorry we’re late,” Patrick says, greeting Jeannie with a kiss on the cheek. “Vendor shipment crisis.” 

“All good, all good,” Jeannie replies, stress straining her voice, and yes, David can attest that birthday parties can take years off your life, but like - Max is 8. He didn’t just get outed to his parents who didn’t know he was gay and dating his business partner of almost two years. How bad can it be?

“Did we miss cake?” Patrick asks, because he has David’s best interests at heart, and David gives him a grateful squeeze on the arm for knowing where his priorities lie.

“No, not yet, just - um…” she trails off and bites her lips, reaching behind and pulling the door shut, blocking out the worst of the noise. 

“Everything okay?” Patrick asks, darting a quick, concerned glance at David. 

“Yeah, we’re just - having a bit of a meltdown here, to be perfectly honest.” She pushes her hair out of face and blows out a breath that hitches halfway through. 

_How bad can it be?_ he had asked. 

Pretty bad, turns out.

“His dad didn’t come,” she admits, biting her lip as her eyes fill, just like they did in the parking lot the first time David ever spoke to her. “He didn’t even call.” Her voice breaks then and fury the likes of which David has never felt before burns hot in his veins. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he blurts. He feels Patrick’s hand on his wrist, which would maybe be a comfort if Patrick wasn’t squeezing it too hard, probably feeling like he, too, would like to put out a hit on Max’s biological paternal procreator. 

“I keep telling him the day’s not over, that there’s still time, but he just…” she trails off and shakes her head. “He knows. His dad’s done this over and over and he fucking _knows_.” A tear spills onto her cheek and she angrily wipes it away, laughing sardonically with a shrug. “So now I’ve got a house full of rambunctious little assholes and a birthday boy who won’t come out of his room.” 

“What can we do?” Patrick asks, because that’s who he is: a man of action. David is too, he supposes, but his action involves wanting to call Nick at John’s of 12th Street and ask if he still knows a guy. 

Jeannie’s hands flap, rising and falling pathetically to her sides. She has no answer. 

But Patrick has the look on his face that Alexis once classified as ‘determined button.’ “Do you want us to talk to him?” 

A frisson of fear slides up David’s spine. “When you say ‘us,’ you mean you, right?” he murmurs. 

Patrick runs his thumb over the wrist he’s still holding. “Sure, David.” 

“I mean - you’re welcome to,” Jeannie starts, reaching back for the knob once more, “but unfortunately, he inherited my stubbornness so proceed with extreme caution.” She twists it, pushes the door open, and a wall of sound makes David stumble back. 

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, using Patrick as a human shield as his husband bravely leads him into the melee. 

If you stripped him of his hyperbole, he’d be forced to admit there are maybe only ten kids running around, but the house is one story and the walls are thick, the laughter and cries and shrieks ricocheting off the surprisingly tasteful decor to pummel all five of David’s senses. 

_Why_ did either of them think this was a good idea? 

Max. 

That’s why. 

Ugh. 

Speaking of - 

“His room is down there,” Jeannie murmurs, pointing towards a hall leading to the left from the living room. Patrick nods not unlike a man going off to the front and David feels like he’s supposed to kiss him goodbye or at least promise to write, but he can only _imagine_ the chorus of ‘ewwwww’s that would receive. They don’t need that kind of negativity right now. 

There seems to be another mom on the premises to help wrangle, which is good. She gives them a warm, sympathetic smile before clapping her hands and announcing “Guys, let’s go outside and play a game!” like they’ve each just won floor seats to Beyonce. 

The suggestion is met with so much enthusiasm, David is honestly concerned that they’ve cut into the cake already and are burning off the sugar high, but he breathes out in relief when he spies it resting whole and dotted with candles waiting to be lit on the dining room table. The back door bangs open and the children stream out, finally leaving blessed silence in their wake. 

"Wow," he breathes. 

"Yeah," Jeannie replies. "It's literally only taken the fear of jail time and social services coming to keep me from breaking out the vodka." 

"I'm sure both the judge _and_ the caseworker would understand."

Patrick is being oddly quiet next to them so David reaches out to take the gift from his husband’s rigid fingers and gives him a gentle prod to the center of his back. Someone needs help. It's basically Patrick's bat signal. 

“Last door on the left,” Jeannie murmurs, worrying her lip and looking approximately as optimistic about this venture as David is. 

“Right,” Patrick replies, squaring his shoulders and all but marching down the hallway like the brave little soldier he is. He turns at the last minute and David gives him a thumbs up, before he raises his hand and knocks gently on the door. “Max?” 

David can’t hear whatever reply Max gives, if any, but Patrick opens the door and disappears inside regardless. He immediately turns to Jeannie, arms crossed haughtily over his chest, not even caring that he’s ruining his semi-stellar wrapping job. “So where does this jackass live and how quickly can I have one of the local hooligans send a flaming pile of shit to his house?” 

Jeannie rubs her temples as David eyes the bar cart in the corner. “Trust me, the thought has crossed my mind. And he lives in Elm Falls, though he seems to be gone for work more often than not. Don’t ask me what he does these days, though. I’m just grateful the child support payments are on time. Usually.” 

He places a hand on her shoulder and she looks up at him gratefully. 

“Thank you guys for coming, truly. I know he… may not seem excited now, but he couldn’t wait to show you both his room. He has the Lego set you gave him proudly displayed on a shelf. Like, I’m not even allowed to dust it.” She laughs a little, but it’s a sad thing. 

Hurting because your kid hurts must be a special kind of ache.

“Wouldn’t have missed it,” he murmurs. And he means it. Hell, they _closed_ the _store_ for this. And he hasn’t even had _cake_ yet. 

But before he can ask for an estimated timeline on the cutting and distribution, raised voices draw their attention to the hall - well, _one_ raised voice - and concern bubbles in David’s chest. 

“That doesn’t sound good,” he says as Jeannie quickly moves past him. 

“No. No, it's doesn't.” 

It’s not a long hallway and he can hear the yelled _“Go away!”_ clear as day through the door. Jeannie immediately flings it back, which is good because if she didn’t, David would have. 

“What the hell is going on?” she demands, staring her son down, but David’s gaze goes to Patrick, standing wide-eyed on the other side of the room, hands held up in surrender. 

“I honestly have no idea,” he says, not taking his eyes off the very angry boy standing by his desk, hands balled into fists at his sides. 

“Why are you here? I didn’t ask you to come!” he yells and David makes a face because he kinda did. They have the invitation and everything. 

“Max,” Patrick starts, taking a step forward, but that’s apparently the wrong thing to do because Max _loses_ it.

“Just stop!” he screams. “You’re - You’re not my dad!”

Oh. 

An anchor drops in David’s gut because he’d honestly been worried about this. About a perceived threat to a family dynamic that doesn’t actually exist. But try telling that to a kid who just wants to feel worth some effort. 

“Max, I’m not trying to be your dad,” Patrick says calmly, but David watches Max’s soft, cherubic features contort into something furious and vindictive. Something ugly that David has felt many times over the course of his life. And he knows the words are coming a second before they’re out: 

“I hate you!” 

“Maximilian!” Jeannie reprimands and Max rounds on her. 

“And I hate that name!” 

“Well, take it up with your father,” she snaps. “He gave it to you.” 

But he can’t because his father isn’t here, and that’s what finally seems to make the fight leech out of him faster than the color in Patrick’s face. Max drops down to his bed and cries, but David can’t take his eyes away from his husband’s expression. It’s almost as if he can see the palm print where Max’s words have slapped him across the cheek. 

“We should go,” he says quietly but firmly, getting a hold of Patrick’s arm and gently steering him towards the door. 

Patrick can’t seem to take his eyes away from the kid, though. The kid who just took all of the good Patrick offered him and threw it back in his face. “Max,” he whispers, voice catching, but David’s having none of it. 

“Patrick, _go._ ” He tugs and his husband finally stumbles into him, letting David manhandle him out of the bedroom and into the hall. 

Jeannie catches him, but he can’t quite meet her gaze. “I’m so - I’m sorry, I’ll fix this. He’s - ”

“It’s a rough day,” David murmurs, watching Patrick drift down the hall and into the living room like a zombie. “We all have them.” 

And David feels for the kid, he does. But he feels for his husband more. 

He’s gone into full-blown protective mode, so as much as he might want to point out how very _wrong_ Max is with both mood board and spreadsheet supplemental materials, right now, his priority is getting Patrick into their bed where David can wrap him up in his arms as soon as humanly possible. 

“Here,” he says, handing over the gift that’s somehow still in his hand. 

“David - ” Her voice breaks. 

“It’s his first baseball glove,” he says. He can’t bear to watch that statement land on Jeannie’s face. To watch the realization that Patrick gave away something very precious to him because maybe, just maybe, her son is precious to him, too. “It’s perfectly ‘broken in’ or something. He thought Max might like to have it.” 

He hears her watery inhale as she gingerly takes it, and the minute it leaves his grasp, he’s striding down the hall after his husband, not even stopping to look once more at the cake that he’ll never get to have. 

He takes Patrick's hand and leads him out the front door and down the path they just came up not five minutes ago, marveling at a day's ability to go from pretty decent to complete clusterfuck in the time it takes to blink. He doesn't let go of Patrick even as he pulls him around the car; as he opens the door and takes the keys from his pocket before gently pushing him into the seat. Only then does he release him, pressing a kiss to the center of his palm first before shutting the door and moving around to the driver's side, refusing to glance back at the house just in case someone is looking out the window. No one needs to be a witness to his husband's heartbreak. Not even Max, whose bedroom overlooks the front yard. 

"Buckle up, honey," he says as he shuts his door and starts the car. Thankfully, Patrick complies without David having to do it for him. 

The drive home is terrible and the silence of their house even more so. It’s early, not even time for dinner, but that doesn’t stop David from carefully stripping Patrick to his briefs, button by button, and climbing into bed with him. He gets an arm around his chest and tucks his knees up behind Patrick’s thighs, two commas under a down duvet, hand pressed to the steady beat of his heart that not even his uneven breaths can break the rhythm of. 

David doesn’t ask Patrick what exactly happened; the aftermath was evidence enough. He also doesn’t say any of the trite phrases that are currently bouncing around his brain: _he’s just a kid, he didn’t mean it, it’ll blow over, you’ll get over it._

All seem insignificant and hollow at this particular moment in time. David isn’t sure he believes them anyway. 

Frankly, Max would be fucking _lucky_ to have Patrick for a father. He’d be - he’d be _fantastic_ and the only reason he isn’t one is because of - 

David shuts down that line of thought and tries to swallow past the lump lodged in his throat. 

“I love you,” he whispers, lips brushing the hair at the nape of his husband's neck.

It will blow over. And they will get over it. But for the moment, they’re going to lie in bed at 5pm on a Saturday because David wasn’t wrong: 

Hurting when someone you love hurts is a special kind of ache. 


	9. Chapter 9

Weeks pass. 

David knows that Patrick and Jeannie exchange text messages he’s not privy to and that’s okay. David isn’t worried. If Patrick wanted to share, he would, and David knows he will when it’s time. Not a lot rattles his husband besides sports and Ronnie Lee, but this kid… 

This child who, despite all of his best efforts has wormed his way into David’s supposedly hardened heart, has utterly and completely kneecapped the love of his life. 

And David can’t abide that, as much as he might understand. 

Because Patrick’s heart is tender and it is full and it doesn’t deserve to be tossed back in his face. It doesn’t deserve to be treated like it’s not the most precious thing once given. Not even by a newly minted eight-year-old. 

It’s a Sunday and he’s in the back room doing inventory during a lull when the bell rings. He drops the clipboard on top of a stack of boxes and pushes the curtain back, customer service smile already in place, only to be met with an empty store. 

Or, almost empty. 

Because on the other side of the counter, almost too small to see over it, is Max. 

“Oh.” His eyes flick to the window, possibly looking for Jeannie, but more likely looking for an escape route, yet neither option presents itself. Knowing Jeannie, though, she’s not far. “Can I help you?” It’s not biting, but it’s not warm either. It’s certainly not how David would have greeted the boy before the birthday fiasco. 

Before he went and broke his husband’s heart. 

Max licks his lips and swallows, tears already pooling in his big, blue eyes. “Is Mr. Patrick here?” he whispers. 

Sympathy knocks at his ribs, but he ignores it. “No, Max, he’s not.” 

Those eyes go even wider and a tear falls onto his cheek. “Is he coming back?” 

The mean, vindictive part of him that’s still raw from that night of holding Patrick in his arms wants to say _No, you drove him away_ but the adult part of him, the part that just wants to wrap Max up in a hug because none of this is his fault, sighs. “Yes, he’ll be back.” 

Max sucks in a breath and his lower lip trembles. He swipes the back of his hand across his face. David, in what is rapidly becoming a habit, hands him a tissue. 

“Will he be back soon?” 

“I’m not sure," David hedges. "He had some errands to run. He left a while ago.” 

Max inhales, tripping over a hiccup, and looks like he might burst into tears. “Can I wait for him?” 

David is really, _really_ not prepared for him to burst into tears. So against his better judgment, he says, “Sure.” 

He finds the stool he first saw Max sitting on when they met and pulls it out from the back room, placing it next to the counter and tapping it once perfunctorily. He supposes he could continue doing inventory. It would be a nice distraction and at least the store wouldn’t be _totally_ unattended. Then maybe he won’t have to pass God knows how many painful minutes in silence waiting for Patrick to return while he ignores the strong desire to ask the kid how he’s been for the last couple of weeks. 

Because David's missed him. But the only person he'd ever admit that to, the only person he ever _has_ admitted that to, isn't here. 

Max climbs up, still a little too short to easily get on, and tries to settle in. David hovers nearby because the kid is shifting around a lot and the stool is wobbling on legs that Patrick _swears_ aren't uneven, but David knows better. He may not know carpentry, but he knows aesthetic. And he'd really like to not have to make another trip to the emergency room.

All of a sudden, Max freezes, staring at something over David's shoulder. 

“That’s my painting,” he murmurs, slight awe tinting his tone, and for a moment David is thrown. The watercolor Max had given them at Christmas has become such a part of the store that David almost doesn’t notice it hanging beneath the business license anymore. 

“Yes, it is,” he clips. He _refuses_ to give in to those wide eyes swimming in tears as Max sees the present he gave them on display for all the town to see. “I’ll just be back here working,” David says quickly before he does something unacceptable, like _emote_ , stepping past the boy and sliding the curtain shut. It’s childish but he needs it. He needs the separation. The protection. Even if it’s just a flimsy piece of fabric he’s been begging Patrick to upgrade for three months now. 

He loses himself to the numbers and enough time passes that he honestly forgets Max is in the store. That is, until his little voice pipes up:

“Is he mad at me?” 

David sighs and presses his forehead against the metal shelving hard enough to likely leave a mark. David knows the answer (‘Of course he’s not’) but he’s not going to make it easy for the kid. “You’d have to ask him.” 

Silence reigns until that tiny voice comes again, quieter than before. “Are _you_ mad at me?” 

_Yes, I’m fucking furious._

Instead, he says, “Well, I’m not happy.” He presses hard enough on the clipboard that the tip of his pencil snaps, and he stares at it like it stole the last Balenciaga sweater in his size. He shouldn’t say what he’s about to say, but when has that ever stopped him? “Patrick is my husband. I love him more than anything or anyone in this world. And you hurt him. Badly. So, yes, Max. I’m a little angry.” 

There’s a sniffle. Then a hiccup. 

“Okay.” He’s _definitely_ crying, and David silently whines towards the ceiling for his husband to hurry up. 

But fate isn’t that nice and Patrick doesn’t magically reappear, so David drops the clipboard on top of the stack of boxes once more and pushes the curtain aside. At least Max is still using the tissue David gave him instead of his sleeve. Small miracles. 

He leans against the frame and crosses his arms, waiting patiently until Max finally shifts and looks up at him. God, he sucks at this. “You do know that neither of us is trying to replace your dad, right?” 

Max nods. “Yeah.” 

“We don’t want that,” he blurts and then winces. That could have come out more eloquently. “What I mean is, we want to be your friends. Adult friends,” he clarifies, but then that sounds creepy. “Mentors?” Ugh, pretentious. “The fact is, you have a dad and you don’t need another.” Even if he is MIA more often than not like the asshole loser he is. “We want you to feel like you can come to us with any questions or problems...” please God go to Patrick, “but we’re not trying to replace anybody. Okay?” 

Max nods. 

“Okay.” David unfolds his arms and shimmies off the conversation. Could have gone better, but could have been a whole lot worse. Not bad for his first heart-to-heart. “I’m going to finish the inventory. I’ll be right here if you need anything.” He doesn’t mean to infuse his tone with any sort of meaning, but the minute the words are out of his mouth, he knows they encompass far beyond a snack or juice box. If Max needed anything, anything at all, David would be there. 

It’s just a fact, as much as he might try to deny it. 

He turns to go, leaving the curtain open this time, but Max’s voice halts him once more. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. David.” 

He exhales, not realizing how badly he, too, needed to hear those words until this moment. “I know you are, kid.” 

“I didn’t mean it.” 

David smiles, steps forward, and rests his hand on Max’s soft hair, patting once. “I know that, too.” He ruffles those curls, catching the start of Max’s smile before he turns to disappear in the back and pick up his clipboard again. 

The bell rings a couple of times, and Max is always quick to whisper, “Mr. David, a customer,” before David can even think to step out from the stock room. He’s pretty sure having a cute kid by the cash boosts their sales because the two women who come in, both regulars, end up buying more than their usual haul. 

When the bell rings a third time, though, no whisper comes. A strangled noise greets his ear instead followed by a thump, and David peeks out in time to see Max throw himself into Patrick’s arms hard enough for Patrick to stumble back. He pulls Max to his chest and steps over the box he had dropped to catch him, jaw working to contain his emotion as the boy cries into his shoulder.

They stand there like that, swaying back and forth, two people who’ve been a little unmoored finally finding their way back home. 

David leans against the jamb, still in the shadows of the stock room, crosses his arms, and just watches. Max’s face is buried in Patrick’s neck, in that same spot he automatically gravitated to even in sleep, and his fingers are tangled in the back of his collar. He’s holding on so tight, Patrick seems a little short on air, but he doesn’t let go or let up. They’re clinging like not even the fear of separation can slither between them.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” Max is saying over and over as Patrick gets an arm under him for support so he can run a comforting hand up and down his back.

“I know, buddy. I know you are.” He continues to sway back and forth, a gentle rhythm that has David’s shoulders dropping from where they’re hunched up by his ears, even though he’s not the one being rocked. 

Sure, Patrick doesn’t want this - 

But it doesn’t mean he isn’t _good_ at it. 

David cautiously steps out from the shadows, not wanting to break the moment, and Patrick meets his eye, looking overwhelmed and wrecked and so, so relieved. 

“Hi,” he mouths. 

“Hey,” Patrick breathes, holding tight to Max’s heaving back. He looks like Atlas would if someone ever bothered to take the burden from his shoulders - simultaneously about to float off the ground and fall to his knees. 

David walks over and places a careful palm over the curve of Max’s skinny spine, catching Patrick’s fingers under his hand. “Max, honey, where’s your mom?” 

“Around the corner,” he says, finally emerging from Patrick’s clavicle. “I stopped, dropped, and rolled.”

David snorts. “Kicked you out of the car, did she?” he asks, because Patrick still doesn’t seem quite capable of speech yet.

“Basically,” the kid grumbles. 

“Well, I’m going to go find her. You stay here.” He meets his husband’s watery gaze and smiles. “I think you’re in good hands.” He leans up, maneuvering around Max’s body, and places a kiss on Patrick’s cheek, breathing in his aftershave and running his nose across the slight late-afternoon stubble, before moving away and heading for the door. 

He regrets not grabbing his coat when he steps outside and essentially gets bitch-slapped across the face by the wind. Whining and burying his nose in the collar of his sweater, he hurries around the building and catches sight of Jeannie’s car parked just across from his mother’s garden. A second later, he notices Jeannie herself leaning against the passenger side door.

“Hi, stranger,” she greets, a slightly apprehensive but genuine smile gracing her face.

“Hello, yourself,” he replies, trying to tamp down a full-body shiver as the early March chill seeps through the gaps in his knit.

She points to the sign in the garden and cocks her head. “You know there’s an extra apostrophe, right?”

“Which is the least of that sign’s problems.” 

She laughs, a short, sharp thing before sobering and nodding towards the front of the building. “I saw him go in.” She shifts her weight and shoves her hands further into her pockets. She’s going to stretch them out at that rate. “Everything go okay?” 

“Well the store’s still standing...” he says. Then he smiles and turns slightly, crooking his elbow in invitation. “Come see for yourself.” 

She loops her arm in his, leaning into his side and sharing her warmth. The walk to the door is quick and thank God because David’s already regretting wearing his ripped jeans. But when they reach the entrance, Jeannie’s hand tugs him back before he can reach for the handle, and it takes him only a moment to understand why. She’s staring through the window, the hand not holding David’s elbow pressed against her chest over her heart. Her eyes have filled and David follows her watery gaze to watch the scene on the other side of the warped glass.

Patrick has placed Max on the counter next to the cash, bracketing him with his arms on either side and saying something serious enough that he has the kid’s undivided attention. Max nods and smiles, even as more tears spill down his cheeks. Patrick leans in and engulfs him in a hug, placing a quick kiss to the top of his head. 

“He’s been inconsolable,” she murmurs, clearing her throat and wiping her glove across her cheeks. 

David nods. Suddenly it doesn’t seem so cold anymore. “We’ve… not been great either.” 

“No?” 

“Jeannie, look at him,” he blurts, gesturing to his husband. “He’s a fucking disaster.” 

She smirks. “And you?” 

_Walked right into that one, Rose._ “Oh you know me,” he replies nonchalantly. “I’m always good.”

Jeannie doesn’t reply, but she does watch him keenly. Too keenly. He feels like that poor fucking frog in biology, cut open and pulled apart, insides bared to be poked and prodded by the world. 

He’s not good. Anyone who knows him knows he’s _rarely_ good. And he realizes in this moment that Jeannie has joined that small pool of people. The small pool that knows him inside and out. Tim Kreider was right: it is a fucking mortifying ordeal. 

“Did his dad ever call?” he asks and Jeannie hums. 

“A week later.” 

“Fucker.” 

“Yeah.” She digs her teeth into her lower lip. “You know, he sleeps with Patrick’s baseball glove.” 

David turns to her. “Seriously?” And while that might be the most precious fucking thing he’s ever heard, it can’t _possibly_ be comfortable.

She sighs and goes back to watching her son hold tight to the man David loves. “His dad is his dad and I can’t change that, but you two are very, very important to that little boy. I need you to know that.” 

That’s the thing, though. David _does_ know. And he’s fucking petrified. He’s made a living of letting people down; of being let down. He refuses to do that to Maximus Cantwell.

The hug on the other side of the door breaks apart and Jeannie must deem it safe to burst the moment because she pulls the handle back, jingling the bell. Two sets of doe eyes land on them and David will never be used to their combined power. 

Jeannie turns back just before she enters, tilting her head and gracing him with a knowing smile. “We’re winning you over, David Rose.” 

He laughs and nods, following her in because he’s not quite brave enough to tell her he’s been won. He raised that white flag fucking _months_ ago. 

And that’s okay. 

Because if the matching adoring looks Max and Patrick give him are any indication, his surrender is common knowledge already.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a scene in this chapter whose existence must solely be credited to Sully and TINN. Hopefully they'll know it when they see it.
> 
> Also, today is my birthday and in honor of surviving this godforsaken year, I'm posting the last two chapters every day instead of every other. See you tomorrow.

Despite the hurts that were mended that March afternoon, Max is still somewhat tentative around them in a way he never had been before. It breaks David’s heart to see it and to see the way that it affects Patrick.

David doesn’t have a lot of experience, but from the few interactions he’s had, it’s his understanding that politeness is not the forte of the eight-year-old crowd. And though Max always knew his pleases and his thank yous, he’s walking on eggshells with them like he’s Julia Roberts at the opera for the first time. 

As someone who is equally cautious in the face of discomfort, David doesn’t know how to act around him anymore. He _vastly_ preferred the kid’s blunt honesty and carefree joy. This quiet pod person who asks questions because he’s seeking permission instead of looking for answers is not the same boy who let David put hot pink eyeshadow on his lids and lip-synced David Bowie in front of all of his classmates. 

And Patrick is patient. He’s so, so patient. And reassuring and loving and comforting and heartening and a million other adjectives because Patrick has cousins who are more like siblings and he just _knows_ what to _do_ with little kids who’ve had their trust smashed and their still-too-tender hearts bruised indelibly. 

David normally leans into feeling helpless because it means that whatever the issue is becomes someone else’s problem. Someone better equipped on a practical and emotional level to tackle the moral, sentimental, and sometimes ethical conundrums humans seem to find themselves in.

But he doesn’t like feeling like this. 

Especially not when forced to come in before his designated 10am start time because Miriam just _had_ to drop off the next batch of cologne first thing before some horse on the farm went into labor or something, which meant David just _had_ to be present to approve the new scent before they (read: Patrick) unloaded the boxes. So it’s 9:07am and he’s caffeine deficient and grumpy, and he and Patrick had wildly enthusiastic sex the night before and his ass hurts so he can’t even sit down on the stool behind the cash to rest his weary bones!

God, he’s becoming his mother.

The bell over the door rings and it takes every ounce of strength he has (which is marginally more than it used to be since he stopped treating the stationary bike like an extension of his closet) to not yell ‘Fuck off!’ at their first customer of the day.

“Oh look! He does work in the mornings!” Jeannie greets, entirely too cheery for such an unholy hour. Then again, she’s carrying what can only be a thermos built for an overnight truck driver so perhaps that tone is sponsored solely by Starbucks and desperation. 

“And he’s not happy about it, how can we help you?” he gripes as Patrick wordlessly picks up his macchiato and brings it to his lips, tilting it back against his mouth. He wants to grumble that he’s not a child, but he slurps it down like mother’s milk, scalded tongue be damned.

Jeannie watches with wide eyes. “Maybe I should come back when you’re more awake and open to human interaction.” 

David glares, but then Patrick pats his ass, and he’s never been able to hold onto his faux anger when his husband cops a feel. It’s fucking Pavlovian at this point. He still has to suck back a hiss, though. Last night truly was one of their best. 

“No, what’s up?” Patrick asks, coming around the counter. 

To be perfectly honest, David probably wouldn’t deny Jeannie anything, but he’s vulnerable when he’s tired. It’s Patrick’s favorite time to take advantage, usually to get him to sign up for good deeds. And the look of cautious optimism on Jeannie’s face makes him feel like a good deed is in his immediate future. 

“Please, _please_ say no if you want to, but would you guys feel comfortable having Max crash at your place this Friday?” 

“As in tomorrow?” he blurts because there’s a _lack_ of _caffeine_ and he cannot be held accountable for the robustness of his brain-to-mouth filter. 

“I know, I’m sorry. I feel ridiculous even asking - ”

“Why ridiculous?” Patrick interrupts, tone calm and face open, like this is a normal request. And maybe it is, but David isn’t quite functioning at full capacity yet. 

“Well, pizza on boys’ night is one thing,” Jeannie says, voicing David’s sluggish inner monologue. “A sleepover is another. I truly wouldn’t ask, but my dad had a minor heart attack - ”

“Oh my God!” both David and Patrick exclaim, but Jeannie already has a placating hand on each of their arms as they both move to comfort her. 

“He’s fine! He’s fine, he’s good,” she rambles, “But my mom’s a wreck, and he’s getting discharged tomorrow and I just feel like I need to be there to get him settled and to possibly shove a valium down my mother’s throat.”

“Been there,” David mutters, finding himself oddly awake now after the news. It’s not the time to whine about his own petty problems and he counts it as a victory that he knows that now.

“We don’t have any family nearby and I’d need to leave before he gets out of school anyway. The one mom I’m friendly with is out of town as well,” she says. “I’d really only need an overnight.” 

“You sure?” Patrick meets his eyes quickly, and David nods imperceptibly because he knows what the unasked question is. “We can take him for the weekend if you need. It’s really not a problem.” 

“God no,” she blurts. “Twenty-four hours with my parents is plenty.”

“I understand,” David nods solemnly because, though he knows that feeling only all too well, his husband quaintly doesn’t, bless his little Brewer heart. They all actually _enjoy_ each other’s company.

“I am sorry to ask,” Jeannie says, now picking at a loose thread on her jacket and addressing the elephant in the room. “I know things aren’t… a hundred percent yet.” 

David takes another gulp of his macchiato and lets Patrick handle this one. It’s his call. 

“It’s okay,” he says casually, but David watches him shove his hands in his pockets, his anxious tell, poor thing. “If it’s okay with him, it’s okay with us. We’d love to have him.” 

David smiles tightly and nods, mentally making a note to postpone Friday’s sexcapades to Saturday. His ass could probably use the break anyway. Oh Jesus, and to hide the lube. Oh my God, do they have to babyproof their house? 

“He doesn’t stick his fingers in sockets anymore, right?” he blurts. 

He thinks that the two matching confused/incredulous looks he gets in return are a little unfair. He’s being _cautious_. 

Despite that, Jeannie still lets them take custody of her only child on Friday afternoon, which David lets Patrick do because there is no way in hell that he is showing up to the after-school pickup. 

The looks from the mothers _alone_.

No, Jeannie assures them that Patrick’s name has been placed on the list so he won’t be tackled by security and charged with kidnapping, and it must work because his husband shows up 30 minutes after he left the store, holding tight to Max’s hand as they cross the street. Even through the glass, David can tell that the kid is regaling Patrick with a story, but he’s not chattering away the way he normally would, arms akimbo, only stopping for breath when his face is nearly purple. 

The bell over the door rings, and David tries to rearrange his face into something resembling excitement instead of abject terror. He’s successful when Max immediately turns to him and offers a small but no less genuine smile. 

“Hi, Mr. David.”

“Maximus,” he greets, eyes flicking to Patrick who offers a tiny shrug. 

The kid spends the afternoon sitting on what David has rapidly (and horrifyingly) begun referring to as “Max’s stool” behind the counter, doing his homework in the corner as Patrick rings up customers. David was right - having a well-behaved cherub behind the cash does wonders for their sales and when they close up, Patrick hands the kid a broom because a little manual labor never hurt anyone.

With every hour that passes, though, another layer is peeled back, another crack in the shell is formed. Max returns more and more to the whirling ball of energy he was before his father blew up his world and Patrick ended up as collateral damage.

By the time they get in the car to head home, the kid is coming up with more and more ludicrous ideas for what they should eat that night (Kraft dinner with bacon and hot sauce? He’d possibly consider. Kraft dinner with hot dogs and ketchup? No, thank you). Little does Max know that Patrick has already ordered pizza from the same place they had their first boys night with all of his favorite (and correct) toppings. 

Patrick parks the car and shares a look with David over the console as Max asks if Patrick’s up for a game of catch now that the weather’s warming up. David nods with a smirk because at least catch will keep the kid occupied so David can do one last sweep. They had done a lube check the night before, but a second pass doesn’t hurt, so while Patrick grabs his glove from the garage, David takes Max’s little bag into the house and looks around one last time for anything inappropriate or potentially scarring. Child therapy sessions are not in their budget this year. 

And he’s glad he does when he finds a stashed mini-bottle in the couch cushions, for emergencies only. Stevie’s already found it twice. When she walked in on them, though, she stopped looking for it. 

When the pizza arrives, the game breaks up quickly, and David feels like he’s in an episode of Leave it to Beaver when he calls out, “Wash your hands!” to Max as he comes barreling through the door.

“Yes, Mr. David!” he replies, already careening across the hardwood floor in socks and giving David a minor heart attack. 

“You, too,” he says to Patrick, swatting his ass as he passes. 

“Yes, dear,” Patrick replies, leaning up to peck him on the lips.

David follows them into the kitchen to see that Max has already pulled out the stool, climbed up, and turned the water on. 

“Scoot,” Patrick teases, bumping in next to him and squirting a generous portion of the lavender soap from the store into the kid’s cupped hands before taking some for his own.

David leans against the doorway, watching them hum through Bowie’s ‘Heroes’ together long enough to ensure all germs have been killed. He sets out plates and napkins because they’re not heathens (thought he’s not above eating right out of the box), and they do impressive damage to the pizza, especially considering one of them is barely big enough to properly handle the massive slices in his little hands. David doesn’t judge Max for his incorrect folding technique, nor does he turn up his nose at the sauce currently all over his cheeks. Honestly, his husband isn’t much better so instead, David just grabs a wet paper towel and wipes one face followed by the other, receiving matching happy grins in return. 

“I’ll clean up!” Max promptly announces, and David and Patrick watch in amazement as he hops up from the table and gathers the plates, carefully placing them on the counter so he can open the dishwasher and slide them in precisely in the configuration David prefers. 

“Jeannie trained him well,” Patrick mutters and David smiles.

“I’m not complaining.” 

“He’s more thorough than you are.”

“Hey.” But the grumble is half-hearted at best as Max comes back and moves the leftover pizza all into a single box so he can stack the empties on the counter. He claps his hands and nods his little head at his handiwork. Patrick’s hand comes down on David’s thigh and squeezes, kind of like the invisible hand around his heart. 

He keeps meaning to see a doctor about that, but his GP up and moved to the Galapagos. 

Patrick and Max relocate to the living room to decide on a movie while David lingers in the kitchen, snapping a photo of the organized dishwasher and boxes stacked for recycling. It’s only when he opens his contacts to send it to Jeannie that he realizes he doesn’t actually have her in his phone.

“Honey, what’s Jeannie’s number?” he calls, but Max’s voice answers him.

“416-555-9452.”

David’s fingers fly across the screen, not at all surprised that Max has his mom’s number memorized when he somehow got Patrick’s down ages ago. 

“Thank you, Maximus,” he says as he sends the photo to Jeannie with an accompanying note that reads **_Can we hire him on a full-time basis or is that frowned upon?_ **

It never occurred to him that they hadn’t exchanged numbers, but now that he thinks about it, most of the shared correspondence between the three of them has been conducted by Jeannie and Patrick. Even the messages for David from Max have been relayed through his husband.

 **_This is David btw._ ** he adds. Just in case. 

He slides his phone back in his pocket and is halfway down to his seat on the couch when Max, completely unexpectedly, states: “And you’re 917-555-6356.” 

He gapes for a second, quads burning where he’s caught in a surprised crouch like a fucking burglar caught in a security light, but Patrick gets a hand around his bicep and tugs him to the cushion, saving David’s dignity (and his thigh muscles). Obviously Jeannie taught him, but when the hell did _she_ get it?

“She asked for it after Halloween,” Patrick murmurs, reading his mind. 

“This one,” Max finally states from his spot in front of the television, expertly navigating through the Apple TV options like a Hadid at Fashion Week. He steps to the side and reveals a rather crotchety-looking old man and an entirely too-eager boy scout in front of a colorful background which, upon closer inspection, looks to be a bunch of balloons. 

David tilts his head and reads the word **Up** in the corner. 

Huh. He _thinks_ he’s heard of that and he thinks he remembers the premise being ridiculous, but the look on Patrick’s face tells David he’s not allowed to critique it or question _any_ of its believability, which really isn’t fair because going by the picture on the home screen alone, David has _opinions_...

And he hates that he ends up silently weeping by the end of the first ten fucking minutes. And, frankly, it’s all downhill from there.

Patrick isn’t any help, silently shaking next him and surreptitiously wiping his eyes when he thinks David isn’t looking. Fucking Pixar and its goddamn emotional manipulation. 

He blames Max and he tells him so in no uncertain terms the minute the credits roll. “Maximus, what was that?! This will take at least three applications of extra strength cucumber under-eye masks to recover from!” 

Max looks startled (and not nearly as affected) at David’s vehemence, blinking wide-eyed between the two of them. “You put cucumbers on your eyes? But how do you see?” 

Which is how _another_ picture gets sent to Jeannie of them all in matching under eye patches because, as David’s text states, **_It’s never too early to start._ **

She sends back a picture of herself holding up a very large glass of red wine with a wide smile and a thumbs up as an older gentleman, presumably her recently-discharged-from-the-hospital father, sits behind her empty-handed with a pout and a thumbs down.

David spares a terrifying thought for what _he_ knows about the couple currently babysitting his pride and joy. 

The timer goes off for the patches, and they show Max to the guest room so he can change into his pajamas. David and Patrick also change - it’s early, not yet the time they usually crash, but David will never say no to more comfortable clothes. 

Patrick presses a kiss to his cheek the second he pulls his t-shirt over his head. “Go say goodnight to him. I’ll be in in a moment.”

David blanches. “You’re not coming?” Oh that sounds slightly hysterical and not at all confident. 

Patrick raises an amused eyebrow. “I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be in in a second.” He snorts. “Is that okay with you?” 

“Yeah, yes, of… course,” he says and oh that sounds even worse. 

“Okay, David,” Patrick murmurs, waiting to go to the en suite until he watches David exit the bedroom and take a right towards the guest room, the little shit. It’s not that he’s _scared_ of Max, but he hasn’t been alone with him since that day in the store when neither of them was at their best, and honestly, it’s just better when Patrick is there as a buffer. 

David works better with tender things when he has his husband to soften his edges. 

He pokes his head in the doorway to see Max tucked into the center of the bed, dwarfed by the queen-sized mattress and the tastefully chosen throw pillows that he’s erected like a fort around him. 

“I like these,” he says, patting one for good measure, and David groans. 

“Those are to look at, not sleep on.” 

Max wrinkles his nose. “Then why are they on the bed?” 

David narrows his eyes; valid point, but no. He removes the superfluous pillows, carefully stacking them on the chair in the corner. “Did you brush your teeth?” 

“Yep,” he replies, grinning widely to show off his mixture of baby and grownup teeth. 

“They look clean to me,” he replies because it’s not his bill if the kid gets a cavity. “Do you… need anything else?” 

Max shakes his head, but then he tilts his head as if considering. It’s both adorable and terrifying because _God knows_ what’s coming next. “Mr. David, how did you and Mr. Patrick meet?” 

“He was very snippy,” comes before he can bite it back and though it’s the truth, he doesn’t actually want to tip over the pedestal Max has placed his husband on. But then he glances at the empty hall and smiles slyly. Doesn't mean he can't have a little fun first. “Actually, did you know we almost didn’t get engaged?"

"No," Max breathes, like the idea is too impossible to even contemplate.

"Yeah. He wanted to propose to me on top of a mountain - ”

“Whoa."

“Right? I mean - _know your audience_ ,” David says, gesturing up and down to himself. “Anyway, things weren’t going well, I was hungry, and then he stepped on a stick - ”

“Ouch!”

“Yes, but also not really?” He waves his hand. “It was a little thing. Regardless, I carried him _up a mountain_ ,” he says, reveling in the way Max’s eyes go wide in respect, "and then he proposed. Basically I saved our marriage.” 

“Wow,” Max breathes as Patrick comes into the bedroom, the bright smile on his face evidence enough that he didn’t hear a _word_ of what David said. Which is for the best, really. If David learned anything from Adelina, it's that you’re allowed to embellish bedtime stories. 

“All good here?” Patrick asks, and David looks at Max who winks just as abysmally as his husband. _Jesus._

“We’re good,” he replies, unable to hide his smile when Max unearths an arm to hold out a hand for a high five, which David bestows only semi-begrudgingly. “Goodnight, Maximus.” 

“G’night, Mr. David.” 

David heads into the hall but lingers just outside the door, leaning against the wall because Patrick might be above eavesdropping but David certainly isn’t. 

“Teeth brushed?” Patrick asks. 

“Ugh, yes,” Max replies, and David can hear the eye roll in his tone. 

“Hey man, you only get one set once you lose those babies. Gotta take care of them.” 

Max makes a noise of contemplation, but David knows Patrick’s not wrong. He also knows that not everyone has the Rose family’s access to orthodontia or veneers, so floss those teeth.

He crosses his arms and peeks his head around the corner. Patrick has perched on the edge of the bed and is pulling the covers up to Max’s chin like David wishes someone had bothered to do for him after Adelina had left and he was left to his own devices. 

“Mr. David said you climbed a mountain to marry him.” 

Uh oh. This could get him into trouble. And at the angle Patrick is sitting, David can’t catch Max’s attention to flag him that what is said at the bedtime pillow check stays at the bedtime pillow check. 

“Did he?’ Patrick says, and God, David can tell just from his tone that he has his Fond™ face on. 

“Yeah. He said he carried you.” 

And David really doesn’t appreciate that level of skepticism. 

Patrick chuckles a little and David can see him nod. “Yeah. Yeah, he did. Everything was going wrong. I was upset, which isn’t great when you’re trying to ask someone to spend the rest of their life with you. And then I hurt myself, like really badly. I basically impaled my foot, blood everywhere,” he says, heedless of Max’s wide eyes, “but David made it all okay.” His shoulders rise and fall in a shrug like what he’s saying is a foregone conclusion. “He makes everything okay. He carried me up a mountain - a _big_ one - and no, the proposal wasn’t what I planned, but I think it was what we needed. It was... perfect in its imperfection. Which is kinda like us, ya know?”

David peeks around again to see Max nodding sagely, and he inhales a ragged breath, letting it out slowly. He’d feel like a shit if he didn’t already feel like the luckiest goddamn man alive. 

He leaves Patrick to say goodnight and pads back down the hall to their room, trying _very hard_ to not undo all of the work of the cucumber eye mask. It’s early, so early; there’s no way he’s going to bed, but he honestly just wants to wrap his arms around his husband, even if they keep it so G-rated, Disney might censor them. 

He distracts himself with brushing his teeth and by the time Patrick joins him, it takes all of David’s impulse control not to shove him up against the door. Well, he does - he just leaves his clothes in place, sliding his hands up his back and digging his nails into his skin. So much for G-rated. 

“Mr. Brewer, I would very much like to have my way with you, but - ”

“There is a child down the hall,” Patrick gasps, completing his thought yet panting against his neck.

“But there is a child down the hall,” David agrees against all of his better judgment. And nothing kills his libido like the thought of having to give the birds and the bees talk to a toddler. 

Patrick breathes hotly against his throat but eventually gently pushes him away and leads him over the bathroom so they can finish their nightly routine - face washing and teeth brushing for Patrick and a 12 step skin-care routine for David. By the time David finishes, Patrick is cuddled up just as securely as Max was, center of the bed, covers tucked up tight against his chin. He wriggles his arms free so he can welcome his husband into the curve of his body, and David goes because there’s no place in the world he feels safer. 

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he must because the next thing he hears is a quiet voice breaking the sleepy fog of his brain: 

“Mr. Patrick?”

“Wherzabear?” he mumbles, slapping blindly at the arms wrapped tight around his waist as they spoon. 

A sniff. A shaky inhale. “Mr. Patrick?” 

The arms around his waist let go, which _no_ , but David doesn’t have enough of his wits to put up much of an argument. 

“Okay, bud, it’s okay,” he hears Patrick say. 

He finally opens his eyes when he feels the bed dip and Patrick’s warmth leave his back. He whines because it’s still dark and _no one_ should be conscious at this hour, but then his gaze focuses enough to see Max, standing next to the bed in his pajamas and rubbing at his eyes as Patrick comes around and crouches down in front of him. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” he whispers, rubbing his shoulders and then wiping the tears from his cheeks. “Let’s go get you cleaned up.” 

Which... is an odd thing to say to someone who’s only had a nightmare. But then David finally recognizes the way Max won’t quite meet Patrick’s eyes. The way he’s trying to hunch in on himself. The way his pajamas are damp and clinging to his shaking body - 

Oh.

Oh, Maximus.

“Honey,” he says, swinging his legs out of bed and getting a hand on Patrick’s arm, “I’ve got this.” 

And David can’t quite handle the look of _utter adoration_ Patrick sends his way. He just can’t. It’s too early, he’s too tired, Patrick’s eyes are too loud for the pre-dawn quiet. 

“Okay, David,” he breathes, standing back up and squeezing Max’s shoulder before gesturing with his head that he’s going to take care of the sheets. 

“C’mon, kid,” David says quietly, ruffling Max’s wild curls and leading him to their own en suite. 

Max keeps his head low, still sniffling with every breath he takes. David just wants to hug him, but... maybe after a bath.

He turns the faucet on and plugs the drain when it reaches an appropriate temperature. Yes, it’s the middle of the night, but sometimes a shower isn’t enough to wash it all away. David knows. He pours some of the bubble bath they keep on the lip into the water and watches the suds multiply. By the time he turns around, Max is still silently crying, though he looks infinitely more intrigued by the idea of a middle-of-the-night soak. 

“Stay right here,” he says, offering another pat on the head before heading back into the bedroom to rummage through his husband’s drawers, pulling out a pair of gym shorts and a t-shirt that will be entirely too big for Max’s body but will do the trick anyway. “Here you go. I’ll be right outside. When you take your pajamas off, just slip them through the door and put these on when you’re done in there,” he says, pointing to the tub and putting the fresh clothes down on the closed lid of the toilet. He turns the faucet off and steps back, trying to grace the kid with an encouraging smile. “Take as much time as you need.” 

David turns to head for the door when Max’s quiet voice stops him.

“I don’t normally do this,” he whispers, breath hitching again, eyes filling.

David kneels down in front of him and places his hands on his shoulders. “And it’s okay if you do.” 

“No, it’s not,” he argues. “Only babies wet the bed.” 

David presses his lips together, debating for all of a moment before letting the words tumble out: “I still did this when I was your age.” 

Max blinks. “Really?” 

“Mmhm. I was even older, actually.” He doesn’t tell him _how_ old because he doesn’t want to scare the kid into thinking he has a lifetime of bedwetting to look forward to, but the distressed crease between Max’s brows eases a little at the admission. 

“It was a dream. I thought I had gotten out of bed and walked to the bathroom. Lifted up the toilet seat and everything.” 

“And you were really convinced you were there, right? Like, a hundred percent positive.” 

“Yes!” 

“But your brain betrayed you because it’s a fickle bitch?” David nods. “Yeah, been there.” Then he realizes something. “You didn’t say ‘swear jar,” he says with a slow smile. 

Max shrugs, grin pulling at lips still trying to hold onto their pout. “I’ll let this one slide.” 

“Very generous,” he murmurs. “Now, change, get in, soak, sleep, and tomorrow, we need never speak of this again if you don’t want to.” 

Max nods. “Thanks, Mr. David.” 

“You bet, kid.” 

He closes the door behind him and slides down the wall to sit on the floor just off to the side. The door creaks open a minute later and a little hand holding balled up pajamas pokes through the crack. David takes them without even a gross look on his face and turns back around - 

To find Patrick standing in the doorway. 

“Oh. Hey. How long have you been there?” 

But Patrick just shakes his head, steps forward, and gently takes the clothes from David’s hands, leaning down to cup his cheek in his palm. “I love you,” he breathes against his lips. 

“I love _you_ ,” David replies, throat inexcusably tight. 

Patrick kisses his forehead, his nose, and then his lips, tracing a loving line down David’s face, before standing back up and leaving to toss the pajamas in with the rest of the laundry. David stays where he is on the floor, listening to the gentle splashing on the other side of the door. Eventually, Max starts humming ‘Heroes’ and David knows that the immediate trauma of the night has passed. 

It’ll come back - it always does - but David is only a phone call or text away.

After all, they have his number now.


	11. Chapter 11

David considers himself a pro at compartmentalizing. 

It’s why Beth never found out about about Sam, why Sam never knew about Valerie, and why there’s a chest full of childhood horrors locked away in his brain that he won’t even _attempt_ to unpack without a certified therapist and a goldfish bowl of Valium. 

It’s also why somehow, by some _miracle_ , his best friend and his… Dickensian ward have never laid eyes on each other. 

Despite what Patrick teases, it’s actually not on purpose. David tried every week to get Stevie to come to one of Patrick’s games. She could have met Max then. But every week, she was traveling for work or had a shift at the motel or a sock darning class which upon further inspection, might have been a lie. 

So it’s definitely not his fault that they’ve never met. 

But why he’s never even _mentioned_ Max to her is an entirely different thing. Apparently. 

“Wait - you mean she doesn’t even _know_?” Patrick had asked, absolutely flabbergasted as only his sweet little button husband can be. 

“Know what? What’s to know?” 

“David. You literally spent two hours on your day off having a gift-wrapping workshop with him so he was prepared for Mother’s Day.” 

“Well, _yeah_! That wasn’t out of the goodness of my heart. That was a necessity! Have you forgotten Christmas? Because I haven’t.”

But when Jeannie starts taking a real estate law course at Elmdale College, Max begins spending every other Tuesday at theirs, and there’s really no avoiding the inevitable collision after that. 

As much as David might want to.

As hard as David might try. 

Especially when Stevie texts at 4pm that she’s coming over at 6pm, just as Max has finished upselling a woman on the vanilla mint lip balm because it just so happens to be his favorite. 

So David does what any sane, rational human being who’s about to watch months of inadvertent planning come crashing down around his ears. 

He freaks the fuck out. 

“Patrick,” he hisses, shoving the curtain back so violently that he gets tangled in it and nearly gets yanked back onto the store floor by his neck, choking in the process. By the time the piece of fabric unhands him, Patrick’s face is flush with barely suppressed laughter and David shoves his phone against his chest as if it’s done him a personal wrong. 

“Such grace,” Patrick chuckles, taking the phone before David can let go and send it tumbling to the floor. “Am I supposed to do something with this?” 

“Stevie is coming over later,” Davids snaps, beginning to pace the length of the modest stock room. 

“Okay...?” Patrick says, clearly not understanding the severity of this calamity. 

“Patrick, this is a disaster!” 

“Why?” 

“Because we have Max tonight!” 

Patrick raises an eyebrow. “And?” 

“And she doesn’t know about him!" But his infuriating husband isn’t phased at all. In fact, he might even look a little guilty. "Oh Jesus you told her, didn’t you.” 

“David, I honestly didn’t know that your bonding with an 8-year-old was supposed to be a secret - ” 

“Patrick!” 

His husband laughs, crowding into his space and wrapping his arms around his waist, sliding his phone into his back pocket very sexily. “Babe, what’s the big deal?” 

But David just shakes his head, fingers pressed against his lips. This is a _catastrophe_. 

“Okay,” Patrick murmurs, humor slowly fading but Heart Eyes™ blasting loud and clear. He lets go of David, sticks his head through the curtain (which doesn’t strangle him - rude), and says, “Maximus, man the fort.” 

Through the gap in the curtain, David can see Max salute and turn back to finish his homework. 

“You Parent Trapped me,” he accuses as soon as Patrick comes back into the stock room.

“Hmm, I don’t recall divorcing you and sending our identical twins to the same summer camp, but maybe I was more invested in setting up the upcoming season than initially thought.” 

“Patrick!” 

“David!” 

He almost does a little stomp that even Max is too old for, and Patrick catches him at it, pushing him up against the shelving unit and looking at him with an expression that seems to say _you’re the most ridiculously adorable thing I’ve ever seen_ , which yes, that tracks, but David still decides to take exception to it. 

"Don't do that," he points, "you know that I'm not immune to that face."

“Yes, I mentioned Max to Stevie,” Patrick says, ignoring him. “No, I didn’t realize you had been hiding him and Jeannie like some mistress in a condo by the beach - ”

“Mkay, no more reality television for you - ”

“But it’s all going to be fine,” Patrick finishes, ignoring David’s interruption. “I’m going to pick up your coffee and see what Max wants for a snack.” He pecks him on the nose. “Please remember that there is a child out there who is frighteningly adept at running the cash register.” 

“You taught him well.” 

Patrick hums and kisses him on the lips once more before disappearing through the curtain. David really should get back out on the floor and at least _pretend_ to work, but he takes his phone out first and pulls up his text thread with his supposed best friend who's thisclose to getting cut out of his will and losing his knits. 

**_I know you know about Max._ **

She’s clearly been waiting for him to respond because the ellipses appear immediately. 

**[Stevie]**   
**You mean your own little orphan Annie?**

David squawks indignantly. 

**_He has a wonderful mother who could very easily kick your ass thank you very much._ **

But that doesn’t seem to deter her in the slightest. God help them if she and Jeannie ever get in a room together. 

**[Stevie]**   
**Can I call you Daddy Warbucks?**

He squeezes his phone so hard, he’s shocked he doesn’t crack the screen. 

**[Stevie]**   
**Bald would be a bold look for you.**

“ _Patrick_!”

It takes twenty minutes of meditative breathing to get David to calm down, and only Patrick’s thorough explanation about genetics gets him to realize that his hair is probably not going anywhere anytime soon. Max spends the entire time taking notes _just in case_ it comes up on a science quiz one day, the maniac. David is further soothed by the chocolate chip muffin Patrick picks up for him from the Cafe when he eventually deems it safe to leave David alone. 

Of course, leave it to Stevie to somehow sense the second Patrick leaves so she can rile David up some more: 

**[Stevie]**   
**I know Patrick’s been campaigning for a dog. Just think. You can have your own Sandy.**

Followed up swiftly by: 

**[Stevie]**   
**Should I teach the kid Easy Street? I’m gonna teach the kid Easy Street.**

On the car ride home, he’s still bemoaning the fact that Patrick didn’t share his blueberry muffin to console David for the suffering Stevie has wrought upon his person when Max’s little hand reaches between the seats from the back, the paper bag with the remaining half of his own chocolate chip muffin out on offer. 

“Here you go!” 

“Oh,” David whispers. “Max, it’s okay. You can eat it.” 

“No, I don’t want to ruin my dinner,” he replies. “Mr. Patrick said he’s making spaghetti and meatballs and that’s my favorite.” 

David gingerly takes the bag and offers Max a small smile. “Well, ruining my dinner has never been a problem for me, so thank you very much for your charitable donation.” 

“You’re welcome,” Max cheerily replies, and David can see Patrick’s smile out of the corner of his eye. “Mr. David, who’s Stevie?” 

David and Patrick share a look. “Someone whose life choices you should not attempt to emulate,” he replies, and Patrick smacks him lightly on the thigh. “She also happens to be my best friend.” 

“Oh right! You said you had two! And obviously Mr. Patrick is the other one.” 

David purposefully doesn’t look in his husband’s direction. He cannot handle the intensity of that face while in an already fragile state. 

“Yes, he is,” he murmurs, lips tucking between his teeth as Patrick takes his hand (thankfully the one _not_ holding the muffin) and raises it to his lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. 

“He’s my best friend, too, bud,” Patrick says, holding David’s hand all the way home. 

Now, he had hoped that the prospect of carbohydrates and wine would calm the feeling of impending doom that’s rattling around his insides, but it only intensifies as Patrick parks the car in the driveway. 

Max immediately leaves his shoes on the mat by the door because he is nothing if not trainable and makes a beeline for the couch, where he sits primly while Patrick pulls up the recording for last night’s Raptors game. Apparently, it had been on too late and Max had to go to bed before he could see the last half. After some negotiation, David agreed that he could watch it here while they made dinner as long as it meant it was over before David was forced to learn any new sports terms. Baseball is hard enough. 

That’s why he’s hovering in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and sipping at a glass of red wine as Patrick drops meatballs into an olive oil-coated skillet. 

“I can’t believe you and Stevie planned this. You plotted. You’re a plotter.” 

Patrick glances over his shoulder, and David glares just so he knows he’s serious. 

“David, this isn’t some conspiracy. I mentioned Max months ago. All the way back at Halloween, I think.” He turns back to the stove so his next words don’t come across as sentimentally (or accusatory) as he probably means them to be. “Maybe Stevie was waiting to see if you’d tell her yourself.” 

David’s glare becomes more of a pout, and he swirls his wine glass just to avoid answering. “Why did it come up after Halloween?” 

His husband snorts indelicately. “She asked what we did. I said you won a children’s costume contest.” 

“Patrick!” 

“Well, I’m not wrong!” he replies, pointing the spatula and splattering oil on the floor. 

David huffs as he wets a paper towel to wipe it up. “And tonight?” he asks softly. 

Patrick shrugs but doesn’t turn away from the pan. “I mentioned that Max had started spending every other Tuesday with us so Jeannie can take class. Again, I said this in passing ages ago.” He sighs. “Maybe Stevie finally realized you weren’t going to say anything so she did what Stevie does best.” 

“And what’s that?” he snaps. “Be a little b?”

“She forced your hand,” Patrick replies calmly, not rising to David’s bait. “In a way that you hate, but ultimately appreciate.” He stops stirring the meatballs and turns, placing the wooden spoon in its holder and crossing his arms over his chest. “Because these conversations are difficult for you. And she understands that better than anyone.” 

He’s not wrong. Both he and Stevie would rather walk through hot coals barefoot than talk about feelings. He lets out a groan and collapses as dramatically as possible at the kitchen table, spreading out his hands, dropping his chin to his chest, and exhaling. 

“Why am I so nervous?” He hears Patrick approach before a soft kiss is pressed into his hair as his hand gently pets the nape of his neck, thumb digging into the tight tendons there. David loves that Patrick intrinsically knows where he needs him to be at any given moment. 

“I don’t know, David, why are you?” 

He leans his head back against Patrick’s stomach and closes his eyes. He knows why. 

He’s afraid. With Max, he lets his guard down far more than he does with anyone else save Patrick. Because you can’t be as brash with a kid. You can’t be as snippy. Sure, David hasn’t lost his edge when interacting with him, but kids bruise more easily. They hold onto their hurts for longer. David knows this better than most. 

And he’s afraid because the only person he lets see him like this is the man he pledged his life to. He loves Stevie but their love language is not for the faint of heart. It’s not for 8-year-olds who’ve been hurt by people disguised as those meant to protect them. 

He licks his lips and swallows, but does not open his eyes. “I’ve managed to keep these two parts of my life separated until now.”

“Which is a miracle if there ever was one,” Patrick murmurs, pressing a steady, firm hand over David’s rapidly beating heart. 

“What if they don’t like each other?”

He can hear Patrick’s smile as he says, “Max is gonna _love_ Stevie.”

“Well, the feeling might not be mutual,” David grumbles. Then again, he remembers that he and Stevie are basically the same person and _he_ hadn’t held out much hope for himself liking the kid and now fucking look at him.

“Or…” Patrick starts, “are you afraid he might like her more than he likes you?” 

David remains quiet. There is something else, but it wasn’t fucking _that_ and now that’s all he can think about. 

“David,” Patrick breathes, wrapping his arms around his neck from behind and tucking their cheeks together. “That kid _adores_ you.”

“And what if Stevie makes fun of me for that?” he finally blurts, his true fear laid out there; the burden he’s been quietly carrying shared to lighten the load. 

“Baby, no,” Patrick breathes against his neck, pressing a kiss to his pulse point. “That’s not - ”

“What if she makes fun of me in front of him?” The phantom shame of past pains flushes his face out of habit. 

Patrick kisses his hair again, running his nose down to his ear. “David, _I_ make fun of you in front of him.” 

“But he knows you. He knows you don’t mean it.” His voice is tight and he shakes his head. “He doesn’t know her.” 

But then the front door opens and Stevie’s voice rings out with a “Ding ding,” because she decided long ago that knocking is beneath her. 

“Oh fuck me, she’s early,” David gasps as he hears Max’s voice say, “Hi!” 

“David - ” Patrick starts, but David is already pushing away from the table hard enough to make Patrick grunt when the back of the chair catches him in the diaphragm. 

“Oh God,” he breathes, rushing over to the doorway and staring in quiet horror as Stevie narrows her eyes and blatantly sizes Max up and down where he’s kneeling backwards on the couch. 

“You must be Max,” she says. 

And bless that little shit, he tilts his chin up and narrows his eyes, looking her up and down as well. “You must be Stevie.” 

Stevie hums. “Well every friend of David’s is not always a friend of mine... but you seem okay to me.” 

“Likewise,” Max says, sticking his hand out. “Nice to meet you, Mr. David’s best friend.” 

And any act Stevie was putting on just _melts_ as she takes it. “Nice to meet you, too, Maximus.” 

The kid’s eyes light up. “Maximus!” 

David feels Patrick hook his chin over his shoulder. “I might have given her a heads up about that.” 

“You’re the worst,” he says, but it would have been so much more convincing if his voice hadn’t broken. 

“I know,” Patrick murmurs, pecking him on the cheek and stepping forward to pluck Max off the couch where’s since stood up. “No feet.” 

“But socks!” Max argues, but Patrick just swings him around in his arms. 

“You want to incur the wrath of Mr. David?” 

“No,” Max pouts as Patrick places him on the floor. 

“Sir Maximus Cantwell,” he says, patting him on the head, “meet Ms. Stevie Budd.” 

“Mr. Patrick,” Max groans, “we’ve met!” 

“Yeah, we’re best buds already,” Stevie replies with a wink in Max’s direction, and David honestly didn’t know that it was possible to feel so much all at once. It's itchy.

He can tell that Stevie senses his fear, but instead of going after it like blood in the water, she gives him a smile and then promptly rolls her eyes like that brief moment of sentimentality almost caused her to break out into hives. 

“Oh, my bad,” Patrick says, “I guess I’ll just go finish dinner then.”

“I’ll help!” Max cries, bouncing past David and giving him a high five as he follows Patrick into the kitchen. 

He and Stevie are left in the living room and the space between them might as well be the fucking Champs-Élysées. 

“Hey,” she says. 

“Hi,” he manages. 

She nods towards the door. “So that’s Max.” 

David stands up straight, because though he doesn’t think anything bad is about to come out of her mouth, he’s consistently braced for his worst expectations. “Yeah.” 

“Who I didn’t know about,” Stevie clarifies, and David can feel his hackles go up. 

“What’s there to know?” 

“Okay, Miss Hannigan,” she scoffs and he gasps.

“I am _not_ Miss Hannigan!” 

“Oh, so you’re Daddy Warbucks,” she needles and he stares, mouth hanging open. 

“Fuck!”

“Swear jar!” Max calls from the kitchen. 

“Are you serious!” David snaps, and Stevie bursts out laughing. He shakes his head, surrounded by enemies, and puts his hands on his hips. “I’ll take Grace, but only because Audra McDonald is a goddess.” 

Stevie hums. “Fair enough.” Then she nods towards the kitchen. “I like him,” she says, still chuckling, and David freezes, because he’s now married to the first person she ever said that about. 

“You do?” 

She sobers, looking at him and through him at the same time. “I do.” 

He swallows hard and nods, clearing his throat as he picks at a loose thread on the throw on the back of the couch. “Good, because, uh, he seems to be sticking around.” He tries to laugh. He fails. “As much as I might try to drive him away.” 

Stevie smirks. “And we know how adept you are at driving people away. Speaking of, you’re a terrible host, where’s my drink?” 

He gives her the finger even as he leads her into the kitchen where Max is perched on the stool stirring the pot as Patrick watches carefully out of the corner of his eye. David pulls out a five dollar note from his pocket and hands it over. 

“This is all I have, so consider this an advance for four more curse words tonight.” 

“Sweet!” Max exclaims, shoving the money into his pocket. 

“Hustler,” David mutters but not without a smile, shaking his head as he grabs a glass and pours Stevie some wine from the open bottle on the counter. 

"Can that cover me, too?" she asks. 

"No, pay your own way." David snaps, grabbing the silverware as Stevie picks up the stack of plates. He keeps catching her looking back at Patrick and Max, though, a small smile on her face. And yes, he’s well aware they’re pretty adorable, too. 

Max helps Patrick drain the pasta (and by ‘helps’ David means that Patrick keeps telling the kid to lean back so he doesn’t get splashed with hot water as Max listens only occasionally) and dinner is a lively, messy affair after that. Luckily only Max’s shirt is sacrificed to the pasta sauce gods, but Stevie quickly shows him how to spot treat it with detergent. 

Off David’s look, she says, “Do you really want me to go into detail about everything I’ve had to wash out of white motel sheets?” 

No. No, he does not. Especially not with a minor present. 

When the kitchen is clean, the debate over an activity begins. Normally, the three of them just watch a movie but with Stevie here, the choice of film (always a raucous conversation to begin with) is bound to get heated. 

“We could play a game?” he pitches, and Patrick and Stevie stare at him with matching looks of horror. 

“Absolutely not!” 

“What?” He bristles at their dueling expressions of incredulity. “Oh, come on, I’m not that bad!” The incredulity morphs into sarcastic placation, and David points accusingly to Patrick’s eyebrow. “Stop telling people I gave you that scar last time we played Pictionary! They actually believe you!” 

Luckily, Max finds it all very amusing, and David doesn’t think they put him off group games for life. Thank God, too, because he's a fucking shark when it comes to Uno. 

A movie is chosen and David balks at the picture on the home screen but perks up when he realizes young Josh Brolin is in it. Patrick makes popcorn as David refills their glasses (milk for Max, thank you very much), but when they sit down, David notices that Max plops down on the cushion next to Stevie. He shouldn’t read anything into it - he’s also next to Patrick and Patrick is the one who lets Max drape himself all over him in whatever position he happens to find comfortable that evening - but still. There was room in between Patrick and David as well. 

It doesn’t help that The Goonies (whatever the fuck those are) seems to be a film that is near and dear to Stevie’s heart, which of course, Max laps up. It’s a rare event when David expresses enthusiasm for Max’s entertainment choices, which David always thought was part of his charm, but - maybe Max wants that. 

On screen, someone named Chunk is getting interrogated (and David could write a dissertation on the damage a nickname like _that_ can do to a child), but Stevie and Max are giggling about something like the fucking Golden Girls, so David gets up under the guise of refilling his glass because he’s feeling things he doesn’t like. 

It’s ridiculous to feel jealous, but sometimes he just wants to lean into his juvenile tendencies. It takes more than a few years of growth to overturn a lifetime of avoidance.

“Hey.”

He jumps and spins around to find Stevie standing just inside the kitchen doorway, fiddling with the empty glass in her hand. Normally, David would bring the bottle in to make things easy (not that they’re indulging - there’s a _child_ in the house), but he needed a minute. Which Stevie doesn’t seem willing to give him.

“Hi.” He holds out the Malbec and tops up her glass. “You and Max seemed to hit it off.” 

She looks up at him from under her lashes and raises an eyebrow. “Don’t do that,” she says. 

He lifts the bottle from the rim and watches as a drop splashes onto the hardwood floor. “Um, do what?” 

“That,” she says again, poking him in the chest. “This. Get all squirrelly because your kid and I are having fun.” 

“He’s not my kid,” he snaps immediately because that bruise still seems tender to the touch, Max's _You're not my dad!_ echoing in his ears. 

But Stevie just tilts her head, her hair sliding across her cheek like a curtain. “It’s like you don’t even know how good you are at that.” 

He huffs because she’s speaking in vaguerys and now he’s getting annoyed. “At _what_?” 

“C’mere,” she says instead, beckoning him closer by pulling on his sweater, a surefire way to get him to come anywhere. “Look in there.” 

He pokes his head around the corner where Patrick and Max sit rapt on the couch. The angle is such that he can only see the side and back of their auburn heads, but it’s clear that Max is leaning on Patrick’s shoulder, cuddled into his side. 

Stevie drops her voice, not wanting to interrupt the scene in front of her. “He is your kid, though. Kind of. In the way it counts, all that… caring stuff.” She flicks her hand and then shrugs. “He’s yours. And you’re good at it." Then she crosses to the refrigerator and taps the photo from Halloween. "Both of you.” 

David’s eyes burn, but he shakes it off. His ragged voice betrays him anyway. “Ew, where did you come from?” he whispers. “What was in the wine?” 

Stevie punches him in the shoulder and heads back into the living room. He takes a moment to collect himself (not that Patrick won’t notice anyway) before joining them just in time to see Max to fight against a yawn. He’ll have to go to bed soon. It’s a school night. 

“Are you sleeping over, too?” he mumbles to Stevie as she takes her seat again. 

“Duh,” Patrick replies without taking his eyes from the screen, and Stevie can’t suppress her pleased smile. She really is terrible at hiding when she feels the warm fuzzies. 

“We should make a blanket fort,” Max says, yawning again, and David snorts. 

“Maybe next time, kid. After I have a chance to go through the linen closet and categorize which blankets are acceptable for… forting.” 

Patrick hums. “Too heavy and it won’t stay up.” 

David glares. “Too expensive and you might not live until morning.” 

“Also valid,” his husband agrees with a grin, pressing a kiss to his cheek that lingers a little longer than it should because Patrick knows David needs it. 

“Gross,” Stevie mutters. 

“Agreed,” Max pipes up. 

“Hey!” they reply in unison. 

The movie ends, and they’re all half-conscious by the time they head to their respective bedrooms. Stevie sleeps on the pullout couch in the downstairs office so Max can stay in the guest room upstairs, just in case he needs anything from them, and morning arrives at an all-too early hour, as it always does the Wednesday after Max crashes with them. 

The bell rings and Max sprints away from his bowl of cereal, rushing past David in the living room as he pats the remains of his eye cream into his skin. 

“At ease, Maximus,” he mutters, puckering his lips for a good morning kiss from Patrick as he follows the kid at a much more reasonable pace. 

“Stevie’s stealing all the coffee,” Patrick whispers as he pulls away.

“That bitch,” David replies with a smile. 

Max pulls the door open to reveal Jeannie and, in lieu of a greeting, he blurts, “Did you ask?” 

She stares down at him. “Baby, I _just_ got here.” 

Max groans and skips off back to the kitchen as Jeannie shakes her head, staring after him. “I know I’m good, but I haven’t quite mastered telepathy yet.” 

Patrick shoves his hands in his pockets, and David recognizes it as the tell it is. He crowds in close because even his caffeine deficient brain can admit he’s curious. “What did he want you to ask?” 

Jeannie steps inside and shuts the door behind her. With every second she’s silent, David’s blood pressure spikes that much more. “He’s - uh - he’s been wondering if he can call you 'Uncle.” 

“What?” Patrick asks, which is good, because David isn’t sure he understands the question. 

Jeannie gives a little shrug. “I guess he was talking to a friend at school who said he has aunts and uncles he’s not actually related to. People he's close with. That he looks up to." She makes a vague gesture at the two of them, like they fit that bill. "So," she bites her lip, "we were wondering if… Uncle Patrick,” she says before turning to him, “and Uncle David might be something you'd be willing to consider. But only if you’re comfortable!" she rushes to say. "I warned Max you might not be.” 

“Oh,” Patrick whispers. “That’s…” He glances up at David, and oh, David could _kill_ him. 

“No," he points, "you are _not_ allowed to cry because if you cry, I’ll cry and it’s too fucking early in the morning and I _just_ did my routine,” he vents, smacking him in the shoulder and tearing up anyway. 

“Take some time to think about it,” Jeannie offers. “I know it’s early and David probably hasn’t had enough coffee yet.” 

“Rude, but accurate,” he replies, feeling a little dazed. Patrick slides his palm down David’s wrist, takes his hand, and squeezes. 

“Thanks, Jeannie,” Patrick murmurs. “We’ll definitely think about it.” 

But then David squeezes back. Hard. 

His husband looks up at him sharply. “Babe?”

Patrick wants this, David knows he does. And it’s… it’s just a word. Just a label. He’s certainly been called worse - 

“Mr. David?” Max calls from the kitchen doorway. “Can I borrow the cookbook to pick out our recipe for next time?” 

He and David have both been learning together (and he uses that term in its loosest sense), so it really is his study guide he’d be taking despite the fact that the kitchen is very much Patrick’s purview. 

Max frowns and tilts his head at David’s silence. Even Patrick and Jeannie seem to be holding their breath. “Mr. David? Is that okay?”

Patrick is an only child, Stevie’s probably tied her tubes, and God help the world if Alexis ever procreates. But… yeah. 

That’s a label he might be able to get behind. He inhales a shaky breath, squeezes Patrick’s hand again, and looks into Max’s entirely too hopeful face. Are they doing this?

“It’s fine with me,” he whispers. “But, um…”

Oh God, they’re doing this. 

“But you’ll have to ask Uncle Patrick to be sure.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for indulging me. You're gems, the lot of you. 
> 
> This is not the last we've seen of Jeannie and Maximus Cantwell.

Baseball season comes around again and Patrick’s team gets a new member of their cheer section in Stevie. David is in charge of snacks (obviously) and Stevie is in charge of beverages, which he realizes might have been a mistake when she shows up to the first game with a water bottle full of vodka. 

Yes, he still steals a few sips but it’s the _principle_ of the thing. 

Patrick is shockingly good at not playing favorites, even though he has one. David, unfortunately, can’t keep his opinions on the matter to himself, as evidenced by the look of abject horror on his face whenever he’s approached by someone less than hip-height that’s not Max. 

The way the schedule pans out, a home game happens to land on Father’s Day, a fact which Jeannie and David have been freaking out about both together and apart, with Patrick acting as the lone voice of reason. David is coping by tackling projects around the cottage and Jeannie has stacked her Saturday with back-to-back open houses, though neither can say what they’re most worried about: 

If Max’s father doesn’t show up. Or if he does. 

The almost-summer sun is hanging low in the sky, and David is surreptitiously putting fresh sheets on the bed in the guest room because, unbeknownst to Patrick, Marcy and Clint are arriving tomorrow to stay for a couple of days. Patrick had wanted to spend Father’s Day with his dad, but when the little league schedule came out, he realized he wouldn’t be able to get away. At least not without disappointing a lot of very tiny humans. 

One of whom is currently painting the back deck because David has a mood board that the current color does not fit, and Patrick wants to teach Max new skills so here they are: free labor on a Saturday afternoon while David pretends to be busy in the kitchen. 

Max is a naturally inquisitive kid, so David’s not sure why he never braced himself for it. Perhaps it had never occurred to him. Those that wanted to know had already asked and the people who never bothered had probably already assumed. Which is why the question honestly throws him when it tumbles out of Max’s mouth on what is otherwise an uneventful afternoon: 

“Are you guys gonna have kids?” 

David freezes just inside the screen door, leaning against the kitchen counter well out of sight. 

“Nope,” Patrick replies, his paintbrush not even breaking rhythm. 

Max tilts his head, squinting in the early evening sun. “How come?” 

Patrick smiles but doesn’t take his eyes off the work in front of him. David has never been so grateful to not receive a question in his life.

“Having kids isn’t for everyone. Uncle David and I are very happy with the life we have.” 

David peeks out further to see how that goes over and frowns at the semi-dejected look on Max’s face. As if he knows even without seeing, Patrick nudges him with the handle of his paintbrush. 

“Doesn’t mean we don’t _like_ kids, bud. I mean - ” he shrugs nonchalantly, “you’re alright.” 

Max laughs and then yells when Patrick reaches forward and tries to smear paint on his cheek. Max swats him away, but Patrick’s focus remains on the boy, now giving him his undivided attention.

“Why do you ask?” 

Max fidgets, picking at a splinter in the deck. “I heard cousins are fun. Mom doesn’t have any brothers or sisters.”

Patrick hums. “Cousins _are_ fun. I have a lot. But, you know, I haven’t seen them in a while. And we’re not as close as used to be. But I have a lot of really great friends here, too. Friends that are more like family, even though we’re not related. And that almost means more, you know?” 

Warmth floods David’s insides, thinking of how Patrick feels about Alexis and Stevie. Of how he’d kill for them without asking questions. Even the rest of the people in the town - sure, Patrick might not commit _murder_ , but he’d certainly help hide a body. And as he watches Max watch Patrick with an expression that almost makes David need to look away, he knows that Max understands just how important he is to them. 

“Yeah, I think I do,” Max finally murmurs so quietly, David almost bangs into the screen door in his efforts to hear. 

“Good,” Patrick replies just as softly. 

They go back to painting, like an emotional bomb hasn’t just left a crater in the middle of their newly painted deck, and David looks around, expecting to see glasses cracked from the detonation. But everything is as it was, even if the small, pleased smile never quite leaves Max’s face. 

When they come in to wash up before Jeannie arrives, David waits until Patrick heads upstairs to change before pulling Max back into the kitchen. 

“Can you keep a secret?” he whispers and Max nods seriously, like David just asked him to strap the nuclear codes to his wrist. “But seriously. Like a big, vital, super important secret.” 

Maximus stands tall like the little gladiator he is and executes a perfect salute, just like Patrick taught him. Because he learned from his grandfather and he wanted someone to pass it down to. 

“Mkay.” He pulls out his phone and opens up his email, tapping on the first attachment the rescue sent him. “It’s, um, it’s not quite a cousin, but it’s close?” he says, not quite as confident as he’d like, holding out the picture of the black lab/vizsla mix puppy who’s burrowed her way into David’s heart as rapidly as the kid standing before him. “But, um, you can play with her anytime you want.” 

Max takes the phone gingerly, mouth agape as he stares at the screen. David twists the rings around his fingers and tries not to yell that even Anna Wintour didn’t take this long to decide the cover for the September issue. 

“So what do you think?” 

Max zooms in, particularly noting the puppy’s large paws and floppy ears, before looking up at David, expression _besotted_. “I think Uncle Patrick will love her.” 

David nods and takes the phone back, trying to suppress a smile. Yes, Uncle Patrick does seem to love small, adorable, unsuspecting creatures. And David has had his eye on this one for quite some time. 

“I think so, too,” he says, accepting the cuddle Max is more than willing to offer, wrapping his surprisingly strong arms around David’s waist. “But just between us,” he reiterates, and Max salutes again, because though he’d never claim to have a favorite, David knows Patrick is his. And that’s okay. 

Patrick is his favorite, too. 

Jeannie picks up Max after her open house with promises to see them both tomorrow. When Patrick’s back is turned, she taps the side of her nose and winks, and David knows that while Stevie has been banned from bringing water bottles full of vodka to the game, it hasn’t stopped Jeannie from bringing the occasional white wine-filled apple juice bottle to share. 

David really does adore her. Immensely. 

Max also attempts a wink (takes after his husband in that department), but David can’t bring himself to regret letting the kid in on his secret. The one he’s been planning for weeks in his bullet journal but for months in his heart. He’s set to pick up the puppy in thirteen days, just in time to surprise Patrick for their anniversary - well, their first anniversary. She’s being puppy trained, a prerequisite David made clear from the outset, like calculus or chemistry, before she’s allowed into the same building that houses his closet.

The dog’s name is currently Brut, which, as a champagne, sure, but as a way of being, no. He won’t pick a new one without Patrick, though, because this is already a frightening enough leap to make on his own. 

Letting something into his home and his heart. 

You’d think he’d be used to it by now. 

Sunday dawns sunny but cool, and the only reason David knows that is because his doorbell rings _entirely_ too early for any functional human being. At least for any human being whose last name isn’t Brewer.

“Whozat?” Patrick mumbles into the nape of his neck. David groans and pulls the covers over his head because when Clint and Marcy said they’d arrive in time for breakfast, he assumed they meant brunch, which by New York standards, is not before noon Eastern Standard Time. 

“Your fucking parents.”  
  
Patrick’s confused blink is practically audible. “What?!” 

He only feels slightly bad about ruining the surprise, but it sends Patrick careening downstairs and buys David a solid fifteen minutes more of sleep. 

Eventually the smell of coffee (the good organic grounds Marcy gets from the shop in their town) is strong enough to coax him out from between the sheets, and it’s a testament to how much he loves and trusts his in-laws that he doesn’t even attempt to tame his hair before he stumbles down the steps. 

“Morning, sweetheart,” Marcy greets, holding out a mug of coffee and receiving a grunt in return, but she knows him well enough by now to see the ‘good morning’ in the noise. He dutifully leans down so she can smack a kiss on his cheek and pull him into a hug. Over her shoulder, he can see Clint admiring the photo of Max from Christmas morning on the fridge. 

“You did this?” Patrick asks, crowding into his space once Marcy lets him go and pressing a kiss to his neck. David drapes his arms over his husband’s shoulders (careful not to spill his coffee) and leans his weight on him. 

“Maybe.” 

“Thank you, David,” he whispers, pressing another kiss to his spot. It’s the first time they’ve seen them since the holidays, and David knows how much Patrick has missed his parents because he knows how much _he’s_ missed them, too. 

“Did you guys get him this?” Clint asks, pointing at the NASA Lego set. 

David feels Patrick nod. “Yeah. He apparently assembled all 2000 pieces by New Years.” 

“Impressive.” 

Patrick pulls away with a proud little smile. “That he is.” 

“Speaking of feats of impressiveness,” Marcy interrupts, pulling bacon out of the refrigerator because she’s perfect, “what time is the game?” 

“I have to be there at 1pm, but we don’t start until 2pm.” Then he turns to David. “You mind hitching a ride with my parents?” 

“Um, I already spy tupperware on the counter and I know for a fact that your mother’s snacks are better than mine, so no, not in the slightest.” 

Marcy pats his cheek as Clint laughs and Patrick just shakes his head. 

“You married me for my mother’s cooking, didn’t you.” 

“Yes, that’s correct,” David replies. 

Breakfast is a lively affair once David’s coffee kicks in, filling the Brewers in on anything they hadn’t been caught up on via text, call, or FaceTime. They know about the dog, and David has to applaud their poker faces when Patrick brings up his desire for one _yet_ again. They’ve clearly been practicing. Especially since David told them weeks ago, and Patrick’s hints left ‘subtle’ behind back in October. 

Marcy and Clint get settled as Patrick preps for the game, double-checking his equipment bag and answering any last minute questions from confused parents about the venue (it’s a _home_ _game_ \- even David understands what that means). He takes his time getting showered and dressed, mainly because he deserves it for his recent acts of espionage but also because he’d like to wait until the last possible moment to put on his (very thoughtful, but still-) polyester jersey. 

Patrick leaves with his traditional, “It’s good luck, babe,” in response to David’s, “break a leg, honey!” and 45 minutes later, David is in the backseat of the Brewers’ SUV, idling outside of Stevie’s apartment, yelling out the window for her to hurry up. 

“I’m coming!” she groans through _her_ open window, garnering a nasty look from her elderly neighbor as she walks her cat down the sidewalk, which - no. 

Luckily, Clint and Marcy are used to this particular side show act by now, and they’re still chuckling as David and Stevie bicker all the way to the field. Clint parks the car as David helps Marcy unload the coolers full of snacks and beverages. You’d think they were here for a three-hour pre-show tailgate instead of a little league game that likely won’t last until happy hour. 

Clint pulls a thin piece of white poster board from the back and unfurls it, and David’s breath catches in his throat when he reads the **GO, MAXIMUS!** written in thick, blue sharpie across it. 

“This okay?” Clint asks, because of course he does. “I know it’s your nickname, but well, Patrick kept calling him that and then I guess we just started, too - ”

“Yeah,” David manages. “Yeah, it’s perfect.” 

He grabs hold of his cooler, the one with the mesh pocket that holds the extra epipen he made Patrick get that _no one_ knows about which, yes, kind of defeats the purpose, but he’s _new_ at this overprotective thing. 

He’s not, though. Not really, if he thinks about it. There’s a reason he still has a leftover go-bag packed for Alexis and stashed in the back of their hall closet. 

Just in case. 

“David!” Jeannie calls from her place in the stands, gesturing grandly around her at the space she’s held for them. “Had to bat away a few rabid moms and pretentious fathers,” she mutters as he gets closer. “It’s like the fucking Hunger Games.” 

“Katniss has nothing on you.” 

“Too damn right,” she says, kissing him on the cheek before greeting Marcy and Clint with an enthusiastic hug. David had given her a heads up that they were coming and, though she was thrilled at the prospect of seeing them again, he thinks she was more excited to know something that Patrick didn’t. 

Stevie brings up the rear and David had been right, she and Jeannie never should have been left alone in a room together. The first time they met cost him four bottles of wine and more dignity than can be quantified. He’s never been more roasted in his life. 

“Budd,” Jeannie greets with a nod of respect. 

“Cantwell,” Stevie returns just as seriously. 

Jesus. 

“So, how are we feeling?” he asks as he takes his seat next to Jeannie and tries not to make grabby hands for the snacks Marcy is unpacking on his other side. 

Jeannie wordlessly hands over the apple juice bottle full of wine by way of an answer. 

“That good, huh?” He takes a small sip and hands it back, and she hums.

“It’s been radio silent for so long that I’m at the point where no news is good news, you know?” 

David doesn’t - radio silence from Alexis was never a good thing - but apparently Stevie does, nodding where she sits on the bleacher in front of them, knocking back against David’s knees. 

He gazes over the field, immediately picking Max out of the group of kids in the dugout, something he hadn’t been able to do at the beginning with all of the matching costumes. He looks happy enough, playing some weird game that seems to involve hand-slapping. Even from this distance, David can tell Patrick is keeping an eye on him, more so than usual because he Doesn’t Play Favorites. 

Patrick may like to act like he’s the calming influence amidst a gaggle of basket cases, but David knows he’s been just as worried about Father’s Day as the rest of them. He’s just _slightly_ better at hiding it. But then David glances around at their Rose/Cantwell/Brewer/Budd contingent and smiles. 

Max certainly isn’t alone. 

A flash of blue falls from the front pocket of Jeannie’s bag as she digs around for her sunglasses. 

“What’s this?” David asks, picking up the envelope and flipping it. 

“What? Oh,” Jeannie says, glancing down. “A card. Just in case.” 

**DAD** is written across the front in Max’s familiar scrawl, the same handwriting that’s helped write grocery lists with Patrick for new recipes to try and left post-its at the store detailing how much money David still owes the swear jar. Something sharp pierces something soft within him, and David realizes he doesn’t even have a name to place to this absolute fucking coward. 

“What’s his name?” 

Jeannie exhales. “Richard,” she says, somehow managing to make it sound like both epithet and exhaustion. 

David hums. “Yeah, he seems like a Dick.” 

Marcy snorts, Jeannie nods, and Stevie holds up a fist in solidarity. He really could not love the women in his life more. Then Clint goes and rests the poster down on the bleacher next to Stevie, and Jeannie inhales sharply. 

“You made him a sign?” she asks, leaning forward to blink down the line at Clint and Marcy. 

“Every star player at a baseball game gets a sign,” Clint replies with a wink. 

Jeannie shakes her head, propping her cheek up in her hand as she gives them a disbelieving smile. “He’s gonna lose his mind.” 

Sure enough, “MRS. BREWER!” echoes across the field a moment later as Max sprints towards the stands as fast as his little legs will carry him. 

“Oh my goodness,” Marcy says with a laugh as Max climbs the bleachers with a steadying assist from Clint, all but collapsing in front of her in a dramatic fashion worthy of Moira Rose as he puts on his best puppy dog face. 

“Did you bring peanut butter blossoms?” 

Marcy pulls a tupperware into her lap, leaning forward with a warm smile. “You bet I did, kiddo.” 

Max gasps and immediately looks to Jeannie. “Mom, can I have one?”

“No, baby,” she says, tugging on the brim of his hat, “because one will become three and you’ll go to run around the bases and throw up all over the field and then no one will like you.” 

Max pouts. “Uncle David likes me.”

“Absolutely not,” he replies. “I tolerate you.”

Luckily Max knows by now that faux disdain is David’s love language. 

“Uh huh,” the kid says with a sly look he _definitely_ learned from Patrick. 

“Excuse me, can I have my first baseman back please?” his husband asks, somehow appearing at the bottom of the bleachers, hands on his hips, staring at his family. 

“Sorry, Coach,” Jeannie says, “we were distracted by the prospect of treats.” 

“Coming, Uncle Patrick,” Max says, climbing back down again. “They won’t give me cookies.” 

“No cookies, huh? Probably for the best, bud,” he reasons, patting his head. “We don’t want you hurling all over home plate.”

Jeannie makes a noise that seems to say _See?_ as she gestures to the field.  
  
“I promise they’ll still be here when you get back,” David placates, and Max’s eyes narrow entirely too shrewdly for someone who doesn’t even know what ‘shrewd’ means. 

“Do you?” he asks, hands on his hips in a mirror image of Patrick, and David’s jaw drops in indignation. 

“Yes! I have _some_ self control!” 

This time, it’s Patrick that says, “Do you?” with an arched eyebrow. 

“They’ve got your number, Rose,” Stevie says.

“Kay, that’s enough out of you,” he snips. “All of you.” 

“Mom will save you some, right?” Patrick asks, finally looking up at Marcy - 

And his face does something… strange. Not bad, but - 

Oh.

It never occurs to David that Patrick didn’t tell his parents about the ‘uncle’ of it all until he sees the look of barely contained emotion on Marcy’s face. 

“Of course I will,” she whispers, and Max looks appeased by this until he gets a look at what Clint has in his hand and that appeasement explodes into full-on delight. 

“YOU MADE ME A SIGN?” 

“For the MVP? You better believe it!” Clint calls. 

“Dad,” Patrick admonishes, cheeks flushing because he’s the coach and he _doesn’t have favorites,_ but it’s no use. They are Team Maximus through and through. 

Patrick gets an arm around Max’s shoulders and steers back towards the dugout. And it’s only when they’re safely ensconced in a team huddle that David realizes Max didn’t once look around for his father. 

“That’s very sweet,” Marcy murmurs next to him, derailing his train of thought and gently bumping his shoulder. 

Now it’s his turn to flush as he nods. “It is.” 

“We’re lucky to have them,” Jeannie says from his other side and, ugh, it’s too much when he doesn’t even have his sunglasses to use as a shield. Apparently Stevie thinks so too if her full-body shiver is any indication, but luckily, her snark remains behind closed lips. Jeannie passes over the bottle of “apple juice” to help her recover. 

The game begins and their section is the loudest, to the surprise of absolutely no one. David doesn’t know much about the hand-eye coordination of children, but it seems as if Max is a cut above the rest. And it’s definitely not because David is biased. Some of these poor kids can’t even catch a ball. There’s a little girl, though, (Kylie from last season, if David recalls) that’s giving Max a run for his money, and if it had to be someone, he’s glad it’s her. 

The innings fly by and Marcy hands out snacks with every one that passes, as if rewarding them for being on their best behavior. David beams with pride as Patrick coaches his kids deftly but kindly, pumping them up when the other team takes the lead and steering them to execute a rather impressive double play that brings them back up to bat. 

Jeannie is hyper-focused on the game, probably to keep from looking around at the rest of the spectators to see who else might have arrived. David, however, can’t help but constantly glance over his shoulder, even though he has absolutely no idea what this Richard person looks like. 

Marcy’s hand comes down on his knee and squeezes. He looks at her fingers, so soft but sure on the rip in his denim. They’ve rolled with the flow a lot over the course of Patrick’s time in Schitt’s Creek. Over the course of his time with David. And he’s never properly said anything about that. 

Granted, the middle of the 8th inning of a little league baseball game is probably not the most ideal time, but carpe diem or whatever. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “For being so… good about everything.” 

Her expression is confused. “Everything?” 

“Just,” he keeps his voice so low, Stevie probably can’t even hear him and she’s using his shins as a recliner, “this.” He gestures to the field, nodding specifically towards the dugout where Max is standing next to Patrick, arms crossed, one a perfect mini-me of the other. “It might not be exactly what you wanted for him, but it’s the closest we’re ever going to get.” 

“No, sweetheart,” she whispers just as low, releasing his knee so she can take his hand. “We want what you want. What you _both_ want. And if that’s being uncles to this little boy, then we are so happy for you.” Over her shoulder, Clint nods without taking his eyes off the game, which David appreciates. He can only handle one set of Brewer eyes on him at a time. “As long as you maybe let us spoil him vicariously every once in a while,” she says with another nudge to his shoulder, and he laughs.

“Of course. Like I could stop you.” 

She pats his hand and lets go, returning her focus to the field. The 8th inning has wrapped and they’re at the top of the 9th. Even Stevie is getting into it now, leaning forward and muttering under her breath. David glances at the scoreboard - 

Patrick’s team is down by 1. 

Fuck. 

He spends the top of the 9th gnawing at his lips, watching Max on first base catch a ball from his costar, then another from a batter, and yet another from the pitcher, ending the inning and keeping the other team from scoring further. Jeannie’s knee is bouncing next to him and Stevie can’t stop picking at a hole in her jeans. Marcy is gently rocking back and forth while Clint just sits in utter stillness, elbows resting on his knee, hands clasped in front of his mouth. 

You’d think they had money riding on the game, but no, just the hopes of a little boy and a coach who loves baseball almost as much as he loves his husband. 

Kylie steps up to bat and David yells for her by name, garnering a “whoop” from her family just down the bench. She cracks the ball and the audience jumps to its feet, screaming for her as she makes it to second base. 

Max is up next and David gives up the pretense of being cool, calm, and collected. He grabs Marcy’s hand as Jeannie loops her arm through his elbow and Stevie leans back against his knees once more. Only Clint remains still, but the intensity of his gaze could probably melt the iceberg that sank the fucking Titanic. 

For once, though, Max doesn’t look up into the stands. No, he only looks back at the dugout where Patrick nods at him once. Max nods back and swings the bat up to his shoulder. 

David holds his breath as the little twerp on the pile of dirt throws the ball - 

And sends it way off to the wings. 

David exhales and Marcy pats his hand as Jeannie leans into his side. How do parents _do_ this all the time? Normally, a win means David gets laid really well! And a loss means David gets to comfort his husband while naked! He didn’t honestly _care_ this much before. It’s horrifying. 

The kid on the dirt winds up again, throws - 

And Max nails the ball so hard, David is worried the bat cracks. 

“RUN, MAX, RUN!” he screams, not even recognizing his own voice. He’s on his feet and he has no idea how he got there as Jeannie, Stevie, Marcy, and Clint jump up and down beside him. “Oh my God, go!” He spares a glance for Patrick who has a little girl latched to one hip as a little boy jumps on his back all of them screaming themselves hoarse. 

Kylie swings around third, on her way to tie, but it doesn’t matter - Max’s ball lands outside the little league home run line and he leaps in the air just after he rounds second. 

Maximus Cantwell just won the game, and David could fucking cry. 

“Touch third! Touch third!” Patrick yells when Max’s joyous skipping almost causes him to miss the base.

Jeannie’s arms are around David’s neck and Marcy’s grip is firm on his waist. You’d think they just won the championship, but no, it’s just a Sunday in the beginning of the season on a relatively insignificant holiday. David yells like it’s the World Series anyway. 

Max stomps on home plate and is greeted by the rest of his team, hugging him and slapping his back and engaging in general roughhousing that has David concerned for Max’s physical wellbeing. 

As soon as Max breaks free, he makes a beeline for Patrick who’s been watching with pride from the sidelines. He catches him much like he did that day at the store, when Max wanted forgiveness for something Patrick had already absolved. 

David’s breath is unsteady as he pulls out his phone and snaps a photo, Max’s arms and legs tight around his husband, both of them beaming into each other’s shoulders. It’s a beautiful photo, honestly, the early evening light perfect and the emotion apparent. 

The teams line up to slap hands and as soon as Max makes it through to the end, he sprints to the bleachers and clambers up once more, flinging himself at Stevie because she just so happens to be the closest. The noise of surprise she makes would be hilarious if David didn’t find himself tearing up as much as he did at the Downton season four finale. Max lets go only to launch himself at his mom, reaching out an arm to catch David around the neck, like he just can’t wait to grab hold of him. 

“We won!” he yells, and David laughs, pressing his forehead to the kid’s temple. 

“ _You_ won,” he stresses, because it’s important to him that Max know his self worth. “Though, yes, team spirit and all that,” he says, because his husband would want him to. 

They make their way off the bleachers as a mass exodus starts to the field for celebrations and to the parking lot for dejected rides home, respectively. David gets to the bottom of the stands and Max holds his arms out by the side, not feeling like navigating the last few bleachers. 

“Help me down?” 

David scoffs teasingly. “No, you’re too big and my chiropractor can’t see me until next Thursday.” 

“Rude, Uncle David,” he says with such an exact approximation of Alexis’ tone that David is genuinely concerned that Max has been speaking on the phone with his sister. More likely, though, his husband has just been indoctrinating him on the best ways to annoy the living shit out of him. 

Alexis still doesn’t know about him - one family member at a time, he thinks, glancing at Stevie - though she likely will when he posts the photo he just took on his Instagram. 

“C’mere, big guy,” Clint chuckles, reaching up and lifting Max off the stands, swinging him around before placing him on the ground. 

“Thanks, Mr. Brewer!” Max calls, already taking off at a sprint for Patrick, who’s surrounded by parents giving him well wishes and kids asking for selfies. 

David married a certified celebrity. 

At least in the little league circuit. 

It’s a preferable social scene to be perfectly honest. 

He watches Max barrel into his husband, holding tight to his waist as Patrick stares down at him like he can’t quite believe his luck. And then, favorites be damned, Patrick lifts Max up onto his shoulders, holding up his hand so Max can slap it with a high five. 

David takes another photo, one of Max’s hands clasped beneath Patrick’s chin, his legs hooked under his arms, and David just knows this one is joining the rest in a place of honor on their refrigerator. Before, it had just been flyers and coupons and the occasional postcard. Now they have things that actually make them smile when they reach for the milk in the morning. 

Jeannie is snapping her own photos, the stress lines on her face smoothed for all of a moment - 

Before she glances back towards the parking lot and all of the blood drains from her face. David follows her gaze to find a tall man standing by the bleachers, hands shoved in his pockets, kicking the gravel back and forth. 

“Who’s that?” he asks, more out of courtesy than anything else because he already knows the answer. 

Jeannie swallows hard, holding tight to the strap of her bag over her shoulder. “His dad.”

“Fuck,” he whispers. 

He looks over at Patrick, smiling and laughing, but when his husband catches his eye, he immediately stills. David doesn’t know what his face is doing, but Patrick does, and that’s the whole point. They have an entire conversation in space of a glance, and David watches the celebratory jubilation slowly side from Patrick’s face. 

He walks over and Max looks confused on his shoulders, wondering why they’re leaving the rest of their team, but when he catches sight of Jeannie’s face, he merely tilts his head, already holding out a hand to offer her whatever comfort she needs. 

“Mom?”

Patrick gently lifts Max off his shoulders and places him on the ground. 

“Max, um,” she clears her throat and nods back towards the bleachers, “your dad is here.”

“Oh,” he says, blinking past them all. 

But David can’t look at his face - at the inevitable hope there. No, he chooses to stare at Patrick, at his husband, at the hesitant heartbreak already stenciling lines on his forehead. 

“How about you go give him his card,” Jeannie says, pulling the blue envelope from her bag. 

David watches Clint press into Patrick’s side and say something only meant for father and son, as Marcy presses into his own. He appreciates it, this united front. David places a hand on Jeannie’s shoulder and she manages to give him a tight smile as Max trots off to greet his father. 

“Is he going to stay with him?” he murmurs and Jeannie shrugs, watching keenly. 

“I don’t know, we had no plans. I wasn’t even sure he was going to show up. But it’s Father’s Day,” she sighs. “I can’t deny him his son.”

David moves over to Patrick, because he just needs to touch him right now; to distract him from whatever may or may not be going on behind them. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Stevie throw an arm around Jeannie’s shoulders and 99% of the time, he regrets ever introducing the two of them, but this is the 1%. 

“Hey,” David murmurs against Patrick’s cheek, warm from the thrill of the game and the afternoon sun. 

“Hi,” Patrick replies, and David can tell that he doesn’t quite have his full attention. 

“It’s okay,” he whispers, tucking his hands under the back of his husband’s jersey. “He’s his father and it’s okay.” 

“I know,” Patrick quietly replies, sounding like he hates himself for how petulant it comes out anyway. But before David can even begin to give voice to all of those comforting things he said in the aftermath of the birthday debacle, when Patrick thought Max hated him and Max didn’t know how lucky he was to have Patrick in his life, Max comes skipping back to their tense little huddle and beams up at his mother. 

“Kay. I’m ready.”

“Um,” Jeannie blinks down at him and then looks towards the stands. Her ex-husband seems to be just as confused by this turn of events as she is. “You are?” 

“Yep,” Max replies. “Can we have lasagna for dinner?” 

Jeannie seems to be channeling Anne Hathaway in The Devil Wears Prada, stunned into silence under the force of Meryl Streep’s withering gaze, so luckily Marcy steps in because she’s basically Stanley Tucci in this scenario, fixing catastrophes everywhere she goes. 

“Well, you’re in luck. That’s Mr. Brewer’s favorite, and I just so happened to bring all of the fixins’ with me for the occasion. Would you want to join us?” 

Jeannie finally seems to snap out of her stupor, looking up in time to watch Richard walk away (what he does best, apparently) before glancing between Patrick and Clint. “Are you sure? It’s your holiday. We don’t want to impose.” 

“No imposition at all!” Clint says, throwing an arm around Patrick’s shoulders. “We’d be happy to have you. All of you,” he amends, aiming it at Stevie, and Jesus, if David didn’t love his father-in-law before, he certainly does now. 

He really should call his dad when he gets home. 

“We’d like that a lot, I think,” Jeannie replies, and David can hear the tremor beneath the surface. He squeezes her elbow, and she laughs at herself, watching as Max approaches a visibly emotional Patrick, hands already grabbing at his t-shirt. 

“Uncle Patrick, can you put me on your shoulders again? I’d ask Uncle David, but I don’t want to mess up his hair.” 

_Oh._

“That… is a wise move,” his mouth says, but his heart says _fuck the hair_ and if he didn’t have evidence before of how much trouble he was in, he sure as shit does now. 

They begin to make their way towards the parking lot, Max back on Patrick’s shoulders and Clint proudly holding up his **Go, Maximus!** sign. Stevie is giggling with Jeannie as they share more ‘apple juice’ and Marcy answers all of Max’s questions about what exactly goes into a lasagna. 

David threads his fingers through Patrick’s and holds on tight, catching the glance of the man by his car who let it all slip away because he was too much of an idiot to realize what he had. 

Yeah, he may get the card, but they get the kid. 

And, in what might be the most unprecedented realization of his life, David actually thinks it’s the better end of the deal.


End file.
